


A Dead Man's Freedom

by Delfinge



Category: Inception (2010), Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha James Delaney, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Arthur is James's half-brother, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Labour in the 19th century, Cunnilingus, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intersex Male Omegas, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of miscarriage, Mpreg, Obsessive Behavior, Omega Arthur (Inception), Oral Sex, Period-Typical Racism, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Slow Build, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Thorne likes to use the N-word, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Zilpha does not exist, marital rape, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delfinge/pseuds/Delfinge
Summary: "Dear Lord Almighty, is that your brother?" Thoyt whispered into his ear.Thorne looked at them in bewilderment, but Arthur knew he wasn’t stupid. Everyone and their mother knew of James Delaney — the Alpha was still infamous around London. Arthur hadn’t breathed a word of his brother since his disappearance — and for good reason.Nothing good could come from this for Arthur had many dark secrets that he intended to keep buried.-An Arthur-centric AU where he is the Omega half-brother and bond mate of James Delaney.





	1. The Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to jump onto this rare pair ship and see where it takes me! I know this is very niche because a/b/o dynamics (and incest for that matter, but this is Taboo we're dealing with here) isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I quite enjoy the trope. 
> 
> Please be sure to check the tags, so you don't get any nasty surprises while you're reading. This story contains MPREG and A/B/O dynamics! The escape hatch is over [here](https://archiveofourown.org)! 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Noxixi](https://noxixi.tumblr.com)! A big thanks to [Yurama](http://yurama.tumblr.com) as well, for laying eyes on the eyesore that was my first draft! I'm glad I was able to revamp the whole story :D
> 
> Also a big shout-out to my friend [Bailey](https://3aileypage.tumblr.com) for watching and loving Taboo just as much as I do (and for listening to my mad ravings about this fic! I'm sorry, but I don't feel a lick of shame about exposing you to this~ ❤️)
> 
> All remaining errors are my own, but I hope you guys enjoy!

“They say it came from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Tainos, uttered just as one world perished and another began; that it was a demon drawn into Creation through the nightmare door that was cracked open in the Antilles. Fukú americanus, or more colloquially, fukú - generally a curse or doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and the Doom of the New World.

No matter what its name or provenance, it is believed that the arrival of Europeans on Hispaniola unleashed fukú on the world, and we've all been in the shit ever since.”

**Junot Díaz** , _The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao_

 

* * *

 

Part 1.1

**The Funeral**

_Wapping, London, 1814_

_-_

"Behold, a witness!" the undertaker called with a sound of his bell.

Cold fog drifted from the Thames and turned the air around them gray. Arthur's nose wrinkled when the disgusting smell of piss, shit, and rotting fish wafted around him from the river below. He sat on top of his black mount and looked down at the pitiful gathering around him. None of these people were interested in mourning for his father. They were most likely here for the free meal that awaited them at the wake. He couldn't blame them: society had long since washed its hands of Horace Delaney. Arthur's father had died a hated man, and no one hated him more than his own flesh and blood.

The clop of metal horseshoes against cobblestone accompanied them on their way to St. Mary's church in a mock funeral march. All around them the dockside was teeming with life, workers busy unloading cargo from the many stationed ships, the coarse laughter of sailors and hungry screeches of scavenging seagulls disrupting the cortege's somber air. Arthur didn't care. It was all an act, put on by his father's associates -- businessmen and lawyers, forced together by civility to attend a hated man's funeral. Not a tear in sight.

A hoard of street urchins stalled their cheerful rhymes and gallows song to let the assembly over the bridge. Their gaunt and dirtied faces still bore traces of their youth, but there was a hardened gleam in their eyes that offset any childish innocence. Arthur had seen them scavenge the muddy shores in the past, looting anything of value from the washed-up corpses of bridge jumpers. The youngest of them couldn't be more than four years of age, bare feet raw and caked with soil.

Arthur forced himself to look away.

The dregs of London were visible in every corner. A grimy prostitute stood further down the road, no doubt on the prowl for customers. She lounged against a large barrel in an attempt to put her body on display, eyes fastened on the gilded fobs and broaches of the passing mourners. Her tightly bound stay made her appear skeletal, matted hair filthy from tumbles in grimy back alleys. A Beta, going by the state of her. Omega whores - male and female - were much more popular among the masses, which left the female Betas and the occasional Alpha to fight over the scraps around the seedier parts of London. She caught him watching and sent him a gap-toothed smile, revealing a row of rotting teeth. Arthur wasn't phased. He'd seen the maws of the aristocracy, and they weren't much better.

"Behold, a witness of God's love for us all," the undertaker pronounced with another toll of his bell.

Arthur scoffed. How could anyone, let alone God, love the depravity around them?

He'd long since come to terms with the fact that his father had never contributed anything meaningful to his existence beyond impregnating his mother. Horace Delaney had been nothing more than a drunkard, who spent more time at sea and frequenting brothels than with his remaining family. Despite this, it wasn't the absence of a father figure that weighed on Arthur's mind now. No, it was the series of events that occurred after the old man's return. As bitter as Arthur was, his father's misdeeds hadn't been unforeseen. After all, any God-fearing man would have done much the same if they were faced with their sons' twisted love affair.

And then James had left, leaving Arthur alone to their father's mercy.

It began to rain, but Arthur didn't notice. The clammy chill seeped through his woolen coat. He shuddered at the memory of his brother. Now dead. For so long, Arthur silenced his grief and held onto dignity in the face of his disgrace. He had survived James's abandonment — the cruel absence of his _mate_ , yet it was all for naught in the end. Their father had shown himself to be more of a monster than either of his sons.

Arthur's greatest treasure, stolen and drowned.

Not a week later, Horace had married him off to an odious man — Arthur's first marriage. It had only been a matter of time before another body would be found floating in the river. His father had known it and taken measures beyond what Arthur thought possible.

Arthur was in his second marriage now.

There was a hitch in his horse's step. Jarred, he gritted his teeth, blinking hard to dispel the fogginess from his vision. Thorne would be keeping an eye on him, and for once, Arthur was glad that his station and sex restricted him to horseback. It allowed him a welcome respite from his overbearing husband.

The church stood unchanged from the last time he'd attended a funeral there. He got off his horse, withholding his grimace as his ribs compressed. While his stay wasn't as tight as the prostitute kept hers, the steel-boned structure of the corset was unforgiving and forced the air from his lungs. Good posture meant everything for Omegas, especially when dressed in a fitted suit, but as flattering as it was, Arthur hated sitting in the damned thing.

Thorne held out an expectant arm with an air of anticipation about him. He was a Beta in his prime, smartly dressed, tall and broad-shouldered, with wavy dark blond hair. Many would call him a handsome man, though Arthur would disagree. He knew Thorne far too well to fall for it. His husband was a former soldier; former insurance broker; financially _bereft_ ; and a staunch Christian who had yet to spare his rod.

Horace had chosen Arthur's prison well.

Thorne made no secret of wanting his fortune, but surely he knew better than to show his glee to the public. Arthur frowned but placed his hand in his keeper's hold before Thorne grew impatient.

Ten years had passed since they'd laid James's empty coffin to rest here. Say what you will about Arthur, but there was some morbid amusement in the knowledge that they'd buried his brother on Christian soil. After all, James had openly turned his back on Christ, favoring his mother's native roots. Arthur himself had no faith left in him. Not after he witnessed how immoral and depraved even those who claimed to spread to words of God could be. The hypocrisy was ripe and allowed a breeding ground for corruption.

Besides, if there were a God, he had long since abandoned Arthur because no matter how hard he prayed, his soul was still chained to a shipwreck that lay at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

The air inside was musty and cold, and their footsteps echoed around the dark cavernous hall. Thorne seated them near the front, away from the rest, and attempted in vain to hold Arthur's hand in comfort.

Arthur's skin crawled at his touch, and he quickly clasped his hand in prayer to escape it, gazing listlessly up at the painted glass above the altar. It depicted the resurrection of Christ and would have looked beautiful in a brightly lit hall. Instead, the scant light offered by the wax candles cast dark shadows upon the spread body of the young Lord, causing him to gaze forebodingly down at the congregation.

His father was finally dead.

Arthur couldn't wrap his mind around it. He had thought he'd be happy with the bastard gone, but instead, a bleak sort of awareness filled him. _Dead_. They were all dead. He was now the last Delaney left. It was inevitable, and he should take comfort in the fact that death was at least a constant. No one could return from the grave. But Arthur could hardly breathe. The reality was that he would rather join them than stay in this wretched existence. But death would not be his escape, not yet at least. His pride would not allow him to leave before his time came.

There was still work to be done.

Thorne sat stiffly beside him, and Arthur was well-aware of the drinking flask he carried inside his breast pocket. Thorne was all too fond of heavy spirits, something his volatile temper couldn't afford.

No, the idea of being the last one left wasn't all that frightening if he would be rid of Thorne.

Arthur tore away from his dark musings when Mr. Thoyt, his father's lawyer, bent down to inquire if he'd paid the gravediggers an extra shilling for a deeper grave. Arthur needn't have worried for an answer because Thorne took instant offense.

"What extra shilling?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He didn't want to spend a single penny more than needed, let alone part with a shilling. Money was scant, but as the remaining family members of the deceased, they were honor-bound to cover the funeral expenses.

Thoyt gave him a baleful look. The two had never gotten along and made no attempts to hide it. Thorne envied Thoyt's superior position as a board member of the East India Company, and it wasn't difficult to guess where Thoyt's annoyance stemmed from — Thorne wasn't a pleasant man.

"To bury your father into a deeper grave," he explained in a clipped voice, "Resurrectionists pay extra to be buried two feet deeper than the rest. That way the grave robbers can't dig down to their meat before the sun comes up."

Arthur was tempted to interject. His father's corpse could be dug up and paraded through the streets of London for all he cared, but ultimately he stayed his tongue. Anything he said would be disregarded as the hormonal bleating of a grieving Omega. He could trust that Thorne would give less of a shit than he of what became of his father. He was proven right when his husband turned back to face the front, slighting the lawyer when he adopted a bored manner. "My husband has no business with the gravediggers. His father will rest at the regular depth."

It was times like these that Arthur yearned for James's company. His brother may have faults - and many of them - but he'd at least treated Arthur with respect.

Before Thoyt could argue his case further, the doors to the church opened. Their intruder's heavy footfall was grating in the silence, but they walked between the aisle with purpose. Arthur would have turned to see the latecomer, but anyone who cared to attend this funeral was already seated, so he didn't bother to look. He was about to put it out of his mind when the hair on the back of his neck rose as chilling whispers traveled up the pews and reached his ears.

It was Thoyt who turned around in the end.

"There walks a dead man," he uttered low in wonder.

Arthur finally turned in his seat to see who it was and his heart stopped, breath lodged somewhere in his throat, painfully so, but he hardly noticed. Too numb to comprehend what he was seeing, Arthur stared. It couldn't be. Even at this distance, he knew who that was.

It was none other than James Keziah Delaney.

Arthur tore his eyes away from the specter of his dead brother and faced the altar. Had his careless thoughts opened the gates of hell and summoned his spirit? The memory of the soul-wrenching agony when death had splintered their soulbond had him trembling — childbirth was nothing compared to the pain of a ruined soulbond. Even now, it felt like a festering old wound inside his chest, waiting to rip open at the slightest provocation.

Then, a fearsome rage overtook his shock. James dared show his face now, after _ten fucking years_? Arthur fought the temptation to rise, every fiber of his being pleading to approach James, to reach out and touch him, to end the pain, _to rend him limb from limb_ -

He took a deep, quivering breath to calm himself. Thorne was watching. After spending their entire marriage treating him with bare civility, a sentiment Thorne returned tenfold, Arthur knew better than to show any signs of weakness. Arthur cleared his face of any distress from his husband's shrewd gaze.

"Who is that?" Thorne asked, growing leery at Arthur's avoidance when he continued to ignore him.

James's footfall drew ever near. Every step threatened Arthur's tremulous control, but forgiveness was the furthest thing from his mind. He should have known. James wouldn't be so easily killed. But after ten years alone in this hell.

_Unforgivable_.

"Dear Lord Almighty, is that your brother?" Thoyt whispered into his ear, and Arthur's jaw clenched to contain his fury.

Thorne looked at them in bewilderment, but Arthur knew he wasn't stupid. Everyone and their mother knew of James Delaney — the Alpha was still infamous around London. Arthur hadn't breathed a word of his brother since his disappearance — and for good reasons.

James dropped two coins into the offertory. The sound echoed loudly in the din, and Arthur held his breath when his brother turned to face them. Arthur kept his head down, forbidding himself to look at him, couldn't bear to see James's face after all these miserable years without him. He kept his eyes fixed on the painted glass, away from James's seeking gaze, but couldn't help but track James's movements in his peripheral vision.

James didn't pause, and the lump in Arthur's throat eased when he took a seat on the other side of the church. The priest took it as a cue to gather them up for prayer, and Arthur sought cover in the sanctimonious farce. Thorne wasn't subtle in his staring, and Arthur elbowed him as he craned his neck in an unbecoming fashion. Thorne glared at him in return, but relented and turned his attention to the priest.

Arthur mouthed the words of empty prayers and didn't allow himself to falter as he stared unseeing up at the painted glass. Eventually, the ceremony drew to an end, and Thorne pulled him to his feet when he didn't move. They followed the pallbearers out, and Arthur knew without looking that James's steady gaze was fixed on his back. A traitorous rush went through his body at having James's attention, but he ignored him, anger still roiling in his gut.

He looked to his mother's grave instead. It lay beside their father's freshly dug one, though the bastard didn't deserve to be buried anywhere near her. Her headstone was sunken into the soil under a covering of lichen and moss, thriving after the years of neglect. It had been ages since Arthur had even thought of her and he could just make out the carved out letters of ' _Delaney_.' His mother had been the French daughter of a wealthy English gentleman, but her family had cut all ties with them after she'd died in childbirth.

Arthur often wondered -- could an infant be charged with murder? He'd certainly been blamed by it. The bitter thought didn't elicit the same sadness from him as it had in the past, so there was perhaps some sense in saying that time healed all wounds.

Arthur doubted it.

The priest continued his sermons as the coffin sank into the soil, and to his credit, he didn't falter in his delivery when James took to muttering in a foreign language. The Alpha took out a small container and gathered a pinch of powder from it. He flicked the red dust off his leathered glove and into the air, unsettling the guests, but Arthur stood riveted. He had grown up around James's eccentricity and, after all these years, was still drawn to him. Was he casting a curse on their father's grave? Arthur could only hope since there was no love lost between the two Alphas. The ritual drew to an end when James dragged his stained finger down his cheek, leaving behind a vivid red mark, and he closed his container with care before stowing it away in his breast pocket.

Arthur wasn't quick enough to avert his gaze and was caught looking. The years spent traveling the seas had given James a tanned and weathered appearance. He had a new scar that ran over his left eye.

He was as handsome as ever.

Angry at his train of thought, Arthur refused to be the first one to back down from James's piercing gaze. An unwise decision. A terrible tugging sensation went through him when James reached out to him and poked at the scabbed end of their bond, twining around him enticingly.

Arthur slashed their tentative connection at once, but the damage was done. It felt like swallowing glass. He clenched his jaw with the effort of keeping from rubbing his chest, the ache settling deep between his ribs, and took a shuddering breath. The pain ebbed as he exhaled but didn't disappear. Arthur hadn't felt their bond in years. Not since he'd once made the mistake of tuning into it after James's parting, and the pain had brought him to his knees.

The ceremony came to an end, the guests beginning to disperse, eagerly anticipating the refreshments that awaited them at the wake.

James left without a word.

_Bastard_.

"I'm certain Mr. Geary would like a private moment to say his last farewell to his father," Thoyt announced. He gestured for Thorne and the priest to accompany him back to the church with a courteous smile, but Arthur doubted he was doing this out of the goodness in his heart. The lawyer most likely wanted to see if James would approach him while he was alone, and re-evaluate Arthur's use to his employers. It wouldn't do him any good. Arthur wasn't about to become another pawn in the East India Company's schemes.

"Will you be alright on your own?" Thorne asked him quietly, and Arthur was taken aback, thinking he'd asked out of genuine concern. Then he noticed the way Thorne's darkened gaze drifted towards James's retreating figure and realized that he was only afraid that Arthur would speak to the Alpha when he couldn't interfere.

Annoyed by his guile, Arthur nodded and avoided his seeking hand. With a sigh of great reluctance, like Arthur was being unreasonable, Thorne left, and the priest drew him into his conversation with Thoyt as they made their way inside.

Arthur stared down into the shallow grave as he waited for complete solitude. Only once he was alone did he take off his veiled hat. It wasn't in any sign of respect, but because Arthur wanted his father to hear his words. He knew how conjurings of demons had plagued Horace near his end, convinced that evil entities were trying to drag him down to the devil to face his judgment. He could only hope that his father's fears would come true. He deserved hell for all that he'd done to Arthur. What he'd done to-

Arthur screwed his eyes shut. James's presence may have rattled him down to his core but he wouldn't — couldn't — think of _him_. Or he would break down where he stood and never get up again.

Taking in another deep and calming breath, he spoke at last. "I hope you burn in a lake of fire and brimstone," he said and spat on the coffin for good measures. It didn't make him feel any better, but at least Horace would now become be a distant memory. A memory he intended to forget.

The sensation of pins and needles prickling down his spine urged him to look up. James was watching him from across the graveyard, his face expressionless.

Arthur showed no remorse for what he'd done. James had long since lost any right to judge.

"Arthur!"

Thorne had returned from the church and now attempted to summon him like a dog. Arthur scowled at the audacity, mortified that James bore witness to his degradation. He replaced his hat onto his head and carefully arranged the veil over his face to disguise his utter loathing.

Thoyt was nowhere in sight, and the priest hadn't re-emerged from the church. Aside from Thorne, Arthur and James were the only ones left in the cemetery.

"Dearest, come here!" Thorne waved impatiently. He barely deigned to wait for Arthur before he strode purposefully off after James.

Arthur hoped his brother had enough tact to keep quiet about what he'd witnessed at the graveside. He knew full well that Thorne was about to make a fool of himself. The Beta may have a head for business, but James bore no regards for propriety, and Arthur would be left to deal with Thorne's foul mood.

Perhaps he did deserve the punishment, for he couldn't take his eyes off of James at the moment. His brother was older now, but the way his coat billowed around his frame hadn't changed in all these years. That top hat may lend him the appearance of civility, but Arthur knew James's true nature by heart, and there was no stopping the growing excitement in his chest.

Yes, let this be a lesson to him for loving a beast.

"James Delaney, is it?" Thorne called, and Arthur hung back. For now, it was better to see how this would play out on neutral grounds.

James turned around and regarded Thorne with disinterest.

"Who are you?" he asked brusquely.

Thorne floundered, unused to such blatant disrespect.

Arthur spared another moment to collect himself while Thorne's attention remained on the Alpha. James hadn't lost his edge, voice gravelly with disuse, and the red line he'd drawn on his face made him look wild.

It made Thorne hesitate.

Arthur gave in to the urge to step forward and passed his husband, drawing James's attention. He must have gone too far because Thorne took hold of his arm and brought him to a halt. His grip was bruising.

"Release me," Arthur said quietly with an undertone of steel in his voice.

Thorne's nostrils flared, trapped by civility in the face of an audience, and he pursed his lips before finally relinquishing his hold with a flash of his palms to show he meant no harm. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his theatrics. He turned back to James and schooled his features.

"You're dead," he accused. It was a lie. James was no ghost. Arthur could feel the tug of their fractured bond desperately trying to mend itself with every breath he took.

"I am," James said darkly, "Such a shallow grave they dug for my father. Are you short of a couple of shillings?"

Arthur knew when he was being mocked and gave him a black look. "He was buried to the depth of my love. Much has changed since you died, James."

James looked him over in contemplation. Then, he grunted in acquiesce, bowing his head to him before turning and taking his leave. Arthur instantly felt bereft as he watched him walk away.

Their conversation had lasted less than a minute, yet that age-old addiction had already sunk its claws back into his flesh.

.

Inside the carriage, Thorne took out his engraved silver snuff-box and poured a hefty amount of tobacco on the back of his hand. Arthur watched as he snorted it with more vigor than usual and wiped away the excess with his handkerchief. It wasn't an unusual habit. More than half the population of London indulged in it, and Arthur could understand the appeal since it dulled one's sense of smell. The foul stench of London's open sewage was overwhelming when the weather was calm. He didn't indulge in it himself, hating the harsh burn, and preferred to rub a layer of herbal salve under his nose whenever the odor began to give him a headache.

Thorne stowed his box away and broke the silence.

"Did you see what a savage he's become? Indeed, Africa must have been kind to him," he said, clearly speaking of James.

Arthur stared out of the carriage window to hide his annoyance. The shock was wearing off, and a tingling sensation had taken to throb at the top of his shoulder, where James had bitten him as children. He knew what it meant, but he couldn't bear to think about it now. Nor did he want to examine the pleased curl of the creature buried deep inside him, roused by the return of its mate.

Thorne took his silence to mean that he'd taken offense to his words and reached over to take his hand in consolation. "Of course, I'm not putting you in the same stock as him. One cannot help the blood they're borne into."

"No, you can't," Arthur agreed. He didn't look at his husband as he spoke, his hand remaining limp. Thorne held fast. A voice from deep within the recesses of Arthur's mind whispered that life would have been much simpler if James hadn't been his half-brother.

Arthur smothered it.

.

It was hardly a gathering of mourners when they arrived. The guests were laughing uproariously and ate as if it were a celebration rather than a funeral. Arthur observed their red faces with a curled lip. Each shrieking laughter reminded him more of monkeys one saw inside the zoo than upstanding citizens. It spoiled his appetite, and he found a seat away from the commotion. Thorne grabbed a glass of port wine and stood stiffly beside him with a thinly veiled sneer as he took in the unsupportable display.

James was nowhere in sight, much to Arthur's relief and disappointment, but there was no escaping mention of him. His display at the graveside roused furtive discussions of the 'Negro' words he'd spoken, and many wondered aloud what the sources of his madness could be. Horace's body had yet to cool in his grave, but they seemed to have no issue with speaking ill of the dead. Their speculations quickly took an obscene turn. Arthur tried to act unaffected, but the mention of his father having mated with a primate to produce James sent a shroud of murderous rage over him.

And they called themselves good Christians.

"You hear their whispers," Thorne said with cruel satisfaction, swallowing a mouthful of wine. "They think your brother mad and I, for one, agree with them."

Arthur bit the inside of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood and nodded in stony silence, unwilling to rise to the obvious bait. He thought the worst was over, but then the guests moved onto the topic of James's mother with great relish. Arthur had never met the late Anna Delaney, but he knew James held her in high esteem. It was nearly his undoing when an old crone nodded wisely to the man next to her and pronounced that madness came through the umbilical cord.

Arthur wanted to spit on her.

They knew _nothing_.

He looked off to the side to see Thoyt, who kept checking his pocket watch in evident agitation. Arthur couldn't blame him — he couldn't wait to leave himself. The lawyer's unusually pockmarked face pulled down into a deep frown, but it eased when a portly man bent down and muttered something into his ear. Thoyt tucked away his watch and walked across the floor, nodding to them as he tried to pass, but Thorne intercepted him, seemingly out of the blue.

"Any business with him will be conducted in my presence," he said, and Thoyt shook his hand off his arm. They were referring to James. A spike of anticipation made Arthur straighten to attention while the two stared each other down.

"See, I have the advantage of having read the will." Thoyt brushed Thorne off with ease.

"What do you mean?" Thorne asked, brow furrowed as he peered down at Thoyt. It dawned on Arthur that the outcome of Horace's will must have altered, considering that he wasn't the sole inheritor anymore.

"Meaning I need to piss and no one to hold my cock." Thoyt's words were vulgar, and he begged Arthur's pardon for having spoken so crudely in his presence before taking his leave.

Arthur's delicate Omegaen ears weren't offended. He'd heard much worse pass his husband's lips at his own expense.

Thorne scowled after Thoyt but knew it was pointless to pursue him. He rounded on Arthur instead and gave him an accusing look like he was somehow a culprit in this mess.

"He's bluffing. Your brother was long dead before your father wrote that will. He can't be in it!"

"You forget that my father was mad and still thought James to be alive by the time of his death," Arthur reminded him.

Thorne took a forceful swig from his glass. His cheeks had gained a flushed tone to them from the spirit, and his eyes darted angrily over the room.

"That damned nigger," he spat, and Arthur closed his eyes. He could hardly wait for the day when Thorne would bite off more than he could chew.

Thorne's sneer somehow managed to deepen when James finally stepped inside.

James's eyes found Arthur's at once. It was unnerving how fast the Alpha could pinpoint him within the bustle. But before he could make it through the door, one of the whores approached him. She fluttered her painted eyelashes at him coquettishly and put her bare hand on his arm. Jealousy reared its ugly head inside Arthur at her brazen touch, and he struggled to suppress it. James had never had straying eyes before, but there was no telling how much his supposed death had changed him.

"These girls arriving are all whores," Thorne mocked, his speech slurring together in his growing intoxication. "They attend a funeral of a widower 'cause they know there'll be lots of old men. And that animal from Africa is here to pick at an old man's bones."

No matter Thorne's bluster, it was so woefully apparent that James's presence had the man on edge, but Arthur wondered if it was because of his brother's presiding claim to the inheritance or if something more sinister was fueling his temper. Either way, he didn't pity him — Thorne should have thought twice before marrying a disgraced Omega if all he planned for was to inherit his fortune. He was no better than the vultures surrounding them.

James sent the girl away and didn't even have the decency to spare Thorne a fleeting glance before he turned his attention back to Arthur, who felt his expression close off. They regarded each other silently from across the room. He was tempted to act as if they were mere strangers, but it grew impossible when James's heated gaze drew him in.

Another young prostitute, this one leading a stooped old man, crossed the floor between them and cut James from his sight for a split second. It was enough to free Arthur.

He inhaled shakily as a sudden wave of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and stood up abruptly. "Why don't we call the carriage and let Thoyt deal with the matter?" he asked, not bothering to hide his weariness.

Thorne didn't seem inclined to listen, and Arthur thought for a moment that he was going to speak to James after all. Did he need a reminder of how well their last encounter had gone? Arthur almost wanted to see it. Fortunately, Thorne chose to stay silent and turned to the exit. Arthur followed, weaving through the crowd, and all but hanging onto Thorne's tailcoat. He wanted to get out as quickly as possible.

Suddenly, a hand shot out and grasped his arm, pulling him to a stop.

Of course, it was James.

He leaned in close, and Arthur couldn't help his sharp intake of breath as he caught the long-forgotten scent of his mate. It had faded from his memory first, and he recalled how distraught he'd been by the loss of it. The rush of excitement that accompanied the reminder almost sent him spiraling out of control. He wanted to take deep gulping breaths of his brother's scent. Home. Safety. All forgotten. James's musk had always had a strong undertone of tobacco and leather, and to Arthur, it was like breathing fresh air for the first time in decades.

His breath came shallow, and an upward glance told him that James was just as affected as him, if not more, his pupils blown wide.

James stepped closer still, and Arthur caught a glimpse of the tattoos that peaked up from his collar on either side of his neck. Heart racing, Arthur wanted to press his face there, to taste it, where James's scent was the strongest. The urge almost overwhelmed him when James leaned in even closer to whisper softly in his ear,

"One thing Africa did not cure is that I still love you."

James was now so close that his breath brushed against Arthur's skin, and the air stuttered in his lungs. He couldn't keep his face clear, and James doubtlessly caught every flicker of expression as he angled his head so that the tip of his nose could brush against Arthur's cheek in a subtle imitation of scenting him.

_Oh_.

It only lasted for a breathless moment. Thorne approached them before Arthur could form an answer. James quickly drew back and changed track as if they were mid-conversation, "-and if you are ever short of two shillings, please do not hesitate to ask, as Africa also served me incredibly well."

Arthur reared back as if slapped. One whiff of James and he behaved like a trollop in heat. It was humiliating, and he clapped his tumultuous emotions in iron, forcibly detaching his mind from his traitorous body.

"Well, then you hardly need two legacies," Thorne said jovially, but the greed in his eyes was apparent to all.

James turned towards him, his brows lowering and menace seemed to exude from his every pore at being addressed with such disrespect.

Enough was enough. Arthur rolled his eyes and nipped their exchange in the bud.

"We were just leaving," he announced coldly, all emotions wiped clean from him, knowing how James hated when he did so, and left before either of them could protest.

The air outside did nothing to calm his heart. It washed away James's delicious scent from his tongue, leaving behind a bland taste — he'd just drunk the sweetest ambrosia, and it felt like someone was now trying to force a glass of cheap wine down his throat.

Arthur felt alive for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken the liberty of using a few lines of dialogue directly from the series, but this chapter will be the exception - we're pretty much driving blind into no man's land from here-on-out!


	2. The Inn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for all the beautiful comments and kudos you guys have left me - it's like a balm to my soul to read them!
> 
> A round of applause to [Noxixi](https://noxixi.tumblr.com) for looking over the chapter so that I could get it up before I left for work! ❤️

Part 1.2

**The Inn**

_Chelsea, London, 1814_

-

"He's your brother! Can't you speak to him?" Thorne asked for the third time that morning.

Arthur's eyes rolled heavenward, and he bit back a sigh. He hadn't slept at all that night, plagued by dreams that were not entirely his own. His lungs ached from poisoned rivers while the haunting pleas of the drowned still rang in his ears.

Thorne was a nightmare of his own. The East India Company was breathing down their necks after James's return, but that didn't mean Arthur had the patience to deal with his husband's badgering. Since their meeting, Thorne spoke of nothing but James, consumed by the man when he should focus instead on running their crumbling estate. Even now, Thorne chose to gripe when he was running late to a meeting he had with his one remaining client.

"You are sorely mistaken if you think my words will have any effect on James," Arthur said.

Ariadne, his handmaiden, stepped forwards to refill his glass. He thanked her with a smile, ignoring Thorne's look of distaste. She was Arthur's only servant, a fellow Omega, and he was fond of her sharp wit. He could see her pursed lips and knew she was trying to withhold her opinion of Thorne.

"Leave us, girl." Thorne snapped his fingers at her and gestured to the door. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for an argument to spark between Thorne and Arthur at the breakfast table, and as a rule, she waited until their quarrel subsided before trying to serve them anything.

She set down the canister and curtsied, shooting Arthur a furtive glance while her head was bowed, before retreating from the dining room.

Thorne's chair scraped loudly against the floorboards when he abruptly pushed away from the table. He stalked over to the window and started to pace. "It would be in your brother's interests to return to Africa, or I'll see him hung before King and Country for treason!"

Arthur wasn't impressed. "And how do you intend to achieve that?"

Thorne turned to him with something foul lurking behind his expression. "The law is on our side, but I doubt diplomacy will do any good. You saw how he behaved at the funeral - he's feral! Mark my words, James Delaney has the same disease as his father, and it eats away at his brain. I assure you that the current will soon take him just as it should have taken his old man!"

Something about his wording caught Arthur's attention. He yearned to point out the many flaws in Thorne's plan, but he couldn't tolerate his husband's slight.

"You forget that you speak of my family," he said in a clipped tone. He may not go by the name anymore, but he was still a Delaney.

"Family?" Thorne scoffed, "You associate yourself with that beast?"

"Yes, as I have since birth! It would do you well to remember that you married a Delaney."

"Hardly! I married a worthless Omega who can't even bear me an heir," Thorne scorned.

Arthur opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but Thorne stepped away from the window with a slash of his hand through the air. "Enough!"

He closed in to tower over him, and Arthur's hand curled around his table knife on instinct. He forced himself to let it go before the temptation of driving the blade up into Thorne's blackened heart became too great.

There was a pause as Thorne visibly tried to compose himself. He spoke in a silken voice. "Since you are of the same blood, you should have no difficulty in writing him a letter."

Arthur wouldn't be cowed. "And what would you have me write? Demand him to hand over his inheritance, or I'll be cross? That will certainly force his hand." He sneered up at his husband with open derision, and Thorne lost his patience.

He snatched hold of Arthur's chin in a painful grip, forcing his head back to bare his neck in a forced sign of submission.

"Bide your tongue!" he hissed into his ear, eyes boring into Arthur's as he waited for him to submit.

Arthur kept his body tense and glared up at him, swallowing against the strain in his neck. Thorne didn't like his resistance, and his fingers dug into Arthur's throat like needles, pushing his neck further until it felt like it was about to snap.

Arthur was trapped, and they both knew it. He relented and forced his body to go limp in silent compliance.

Thorne eased the pressure but didn't release him. He softened his voice and stroked down the side of Arthur's face, causing him to shiver with disgust. Thorne didn't notice. "Now, you will speak to your brother and find out what you can of his plans. We can't afford to lose the Company's favor — you must understand this."

Arthur nodded.

"Marvelous. I'm sure your brother won't mind a little tête-à-tête." He bent down and pressed a chaste kiss to Arthur's trapped lips before releasing him. "I will be back by sundown. Do not disappoint me, dear."

Arthur sat still and waited until Thorne had ridden down the gravel path before standing up and smoothed the creases from his shirt.

James would only be too happy to have a private moment with him.

Ariadne returned to the room and silently handed him his glass to soothe his aching throat. She reached out to give him quiet comfort through their faint bond, forged from mutual understanding and unspoken allegiance. It hummed warmly in the back of his mind, whereas the connection he shared with Thorne was stone-cold and bitter.

"Thank you," he said, his voice strained, and took a sip to clear it.

She couldn't keep the concern off her face, but she maintained her role as a servant. "Do you intend to go out today, sir?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I'm in need of a drink."

Ariadne followed him to the master bedroom, growing wary as they entered it. The smell of Thorne greeted them, and Arthur quickly opened the window so their scents wouldn't linger. He didn't share Thorne's bed and never set foot inside this room if he could help it. He slept in what had once been the guest room. Thorne had only attempted to lock him out of it once, in the beginning, but Arthur had retaliated by sleeping in the stables. Thorne had been incensed, of course, but Arthur had his way in the end because Thorne hadn't wanted the word to get out that he couldn't control his Omega.

Ariadne's brows rose when, instead of going to Thorne's spread of liquor, Arthur opened the wardrobe and dragged out a heavy chest which was stowed in the corner. It was a beautiful Chinese design, a gift from James, and the lacquered surface still gleamed despite its age. Arthur hadn't opened it in years. He was taking a risk by disturbing the dust that had settled on it. Thorne searched his things frequently and was under the impression that Arthur only kept his old books there, taking great pleasure in depriving him of them.

Ariadne peered over his shoulder and let out a low sound of intrigue when the carved geometric designs moved smoothly under his touch, sliding to the side to expose another compartment hidden at the bottom.

Arthur drew out a concealed drawer, revealing treasures from a long forgotten time. He moved aside to allow Ariadne to examine the chest. His secret would be safe with her. She hated Thorne almost as much as he did.

Ariadne eyed him, taken aback when he dug out his old clothes and withdrew his flintlock and gunpowder from under them. He started to undress, switching outfits, but she knew better than to try and assist him with putting them on.

"What about the party, sir?"

Arthur grimaced at the reminder. Peter Browning, an old colleague of Thorne's, had sent them an invitation to a small gathering tomorrow evening. Browning shared ties to the East India Company so Arthur wouldn't be surprised if all of the board members would be attending as well. Thorne was salivating at the chance to get back in their good graces, but Arthur dreaded the whole ordeal.

"The invite is for tomorrow. Besides, I will be back before sundown," he assured Ariadne and threw on his brown woolen coat. It was frayed with age and stale smelling from disuse, but it wouldn't be wise to show wealth or status where he planned on going. The Dolphin Inn wasn't a popular luncheon destination for respectable ladies and gentlemen. They served a particular kind of customer. If you needed a man dead, they would get the job done for the right price.

"Are you certain it's safe?" Ariadne asked him as she watched him ready his pistol before pocketing it.

"No." Arthur raised a sardonic eyebrow at her in the mirror. He gestured for her to hand him the small vial of a clear liquid that lay beside his pouch of gunpowder.

"Is that-?" her voice trailed off as she held the vial up to the light. It was a scent blocker. Priceless and illegal to use in these parts, but Arthur trusted her not to drop it. He had melted his signet ring into gold to afford it, and the reserves would only last for a few uses. A tiny amount should hide him till evening.

"Let me accompany you," Ariadne insisted but still placed it gingerly in his outstretched palm.

"I am safer alone," he asserted.

He unstoppered the vial and dipped in his pinky to coat it in the scent blocker. It was cold to the touch, and he warmed it between his fingertips, the texture slick, almost oil like in consistency yet thicker. It wouldn't get rid of his scent entirely, but it would be enough to distort any Omega pheromones he produced. He dabbed it on the insides of his wrists, and to the sides of his neck where his scent glands lay.

He hid his bounty within the compartment again, and Ariadne helped him carry the chest back into the wardrobe. She observed him, eyes narrowed in thought and grabbed Thorne's cologne, which was very popular amongst Beta's this season. She sprayed his coat liberally to smother the rest of Arthur's natural scent.

He nodded approvingly at her quick thinking, but she kept her frown, still not appearing convinced.

"Who will I talk to when you turn up dead in a gutter?"

Arthur laughed and straightened his hat. He wouldn't be using a hat pin today, because while it was the perfect weapon for an unchaperoned Omega, it would be a dead giveaway of his true gender.

Ariadne heaved a sigh and rubbed at her forehead, but followed him downstairs.

"Good luck and safe return!" she demanded when she let him out the back door.

Arthur sent her a languid wave over his shoulder and turned to walk the muddy shores in the direction of the docks. It was a long walk and chilly. The Thames's current carried a cold ocean wind against him, and it nipped sharply at his exposed skin. He took care of where he put his foot down but slowed when the wind carried the fresh sound of laughter. Two mudlark children were playing on the foreshore, and he stilled to watch their game. They were tossing driftwood into the water to see which of them was stronger. A tall mulatto girl, wearing a patchwork coat and a dirty bowler hat, clapped her hands as her companion, a dark-haired, emaciated boy, hefted the wood aloft and flung it with all his might. It splashed when it landed in the shallow water near the shore.

The boy turned to her, pouting at her jeer. The top hat he wore was much too big for his head, most likely pilfered off a passing gentleman, and he needed to tilt it back as it kept sliding over his eyes in all the excitement.

Arthur froze when he saw his face. Put a little meat on his bones and clean that dark grease from around his eyes, and he would look like Arthur's childhood self. He was unmistakably an Omega. The skull-like paint hid it well, but Arthur knew the signs first-hand.

He approached them, catching their words.

"- unfair, Winter!" The little boy was saying.

"You're so skinny! Only bones for the pickin'," the girl, Winter, teased. "That growling in your stomach is a beast."

"'Tis not!"

"Oh, yes it is! Soon it'll grow teeth and eat you from the inside out, and then you'll float!" She crowed and put her foot on what at first appeared to be a rock like she was a hunter who'd felled a lion at a safari. A closer look revealed that it was a bloated corpse. They had already looted anything of value — even cutting off the buttons off the deceased's waterlogged overcoat.

Her friend seemed delighted even though she was predicting his death. He tried to push her, but she caught his hands and turned them in a fast circle, both laughing as they slipped in the mud. The boy was the first to notice Arthur.

He blanched and wrenched Winter to a stop. She stepped forward, placing herself between her friend and Arthur, watching him with wary expectancy. The boy peered at him distrustfully from her side, partially concealed by her coat, and Arthur saw that his eyes were dark brown. The resemblance between them ended there.

Arthur looked at the girl again, ignoring the disappointed churning in his gut. He heard the rumbling of their stomachs over the rolling waves. Making up his mind, Arthur withdrew two shillings from his pouch. Showing them that he had money on him was a gamble, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Underneath the grime and salty smell of the sea, he detected the faint pheromones of an emerging Alpha from the girl as he handed her the money.

"For your friend as well to help tame that beast of his," he explained.

She grinned, revealing a slim gap between her front teeth, and thanked him before turning tail and dragged the boy along with her towards the slums.

Arthur followed them at a much slower pace, watching them until they safely disappeared down a busy dockside street. The slums smelled just as foul as the rest of London; the salt of the sea mixing with the collecting waste of the city that washed up on the shores. No one spared Arthur a second glance, his clothes lending him the appearance of another worker as he walked through the bustling docks. His memory served him well — his father's old harbor office had been just down the road — and he soon found himself in front of The Dolphin Inn. The shabby tavern doubled as a butchers workshop out front, and Arthur wrinkled his nose as the smell of raw meat and wood rot overlapped the pungent scent of dirtied men, harlots, urine and spilled liquor.

_Charming_.

He followed the peeling paint of an arrow up the staircase to the bar and hid a grimace at how utterly deplorable its patrons were. It was hardly noon yet there were plenty of drunk sailors and degenerates mingling with cheap whores. Arthur didn't let his eyes linger on any of them, but those that still had their wits about them eyed him, either with mistrust or entirely too much interest. Most of them didn't seem to be acquainted with the use of a razor and bore crude tattoos. One even had stark black tribal looking markings covering the entirety of his face.

Arthur quickly sought out the man he came here for before any of them got ideas.

Atticus was wiping down his bar with a rag, his bald head covered in that familiar inky blue tattoo of a compass. The thickly drawn arrows of east and west sloped down his skull and stretched to the front of his ears. He glanced up and the pole star on his forehead wrinkled as his scarred, and weathered cheek pulled tight in a delighted smile when he saw Arthur. "Well, isn't this a lovely surprise: Two Delaneys in one day! Mind you, I had to steal your brother's horse first."

"I gather he wasn't very pleased about that," Arthur said, aware of the renewed attention of the patrons at the use of his name. Horace Delaney had made many enemies in his last years, and James had undoubtedly ruffled some feathers with his return.

"Oh, you could say that again — curmudgeon bastard." Atticus tossed his rag onto the bar and walked to him. He wasn't as tall as James, but what he lacked in height he made up in mass. A hard life at sea had left the Alpha with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He patted Arthur on the arm roughly and nudged him towards the door, nose twitching as he no doubt picked on the distinct lack of Omega scent on him. He was wise enough to keep his comments to himself.

"I haven't seen you in years!" Atticus continued, "At least your brother was dead, what's your excuse?"

Arthur's mouth twitched in a slight smile. Atticus was hardly the type one invited around for tea, but Horace was fond of his old navigator and would sometimes invite him over for coffee in his harbor office. "Common decency," he said, letting himself be led and lowered his voice, "You know why I'm here."

Atticus's eyes took on a sharp edge, seeming pleasantly surprised by the admission. "Aye. I have my sources, but you Delaneys have always been a tricky bunch. It's hard to separate the truth from all the fiction going around here." He gave a raspy laugh. "Now, why would a fine gentleman like yourself come to a place like this?"

"I'm not here for the, ah-" Arthur glanced to the side where a scraggly man was licking ale off a cackling prostitute's bosom, "-pleasure."

"I gathered." Atticus seemed amused by this. They were out of hearing range, but he still kept his jovial front. He took Arthur downstairs and led him to a thick wooden slab that had been nailed to the wall to serve as a table. "Make yourself at home."

Arthur sat down on the bench and took off his gloves out of habit. James must have sat here mere hours ago because the faint trace of his musk tickled Arthur's nose when he inhaled. He quelled the urge to rub his face against the wood and went straight to the point. "Did you have a hand in my father's demise?"

Atticus didn't seem surprised, but his blue eye pierced him as they narrowed. "Funny that. Your brother asked me the same thing."

Arthur could tell that he was holding something back. "What did you tell him," he prompted.

Atticus gave him a slow grin and leaned back. "Well, everything comes at a price."

Arthur could play this game. He allowed himself to relax and shot Atticus a small dimpled smile. "Is your answer worth my time?"

The Alpha chuckled. "I suppose James will tell you — Lord knows he hardly ever kept a secret from you-"

Arthur's derisive laugh cut him off. "Name your price."

His sudden cool attitude gave Atticus pause. "Tell you what, I'll give you a discount in honor of your father's memory," he said, spreading his hands magnanimously. Arthur hid his darkened expression. "Just have a couple o' questions for ya, nothing more."

"I trust I won't be complicit in any crimes."

"You have my word. All of my business is conducted with the utmost confidence," Atticus assured, which didn't amount to much. Forgive Arthur for not trusting the word of a hardened criminal.

Atticus took out a leather bound journal from his coat pocket. "I'm writing a book, you see, on every bit of information I come across. I asked your brother what the biggest and smallest thing he saw down in Africa, which was-" he tapped the page excitedly, the back of his hand covered with a faded tattoo of an anchor, "-an elephant and an ant. But I've got nothing on the upper crust Omega. Our paths don't often cross, funnily enough, and never in a way that I can sit down and have a little chat with 'em."

"Fine. Ask your question then." Arthur could always refuse to answer if it became too obscene.

"Steady on." Atticus put on a pair of grimy spectacles and licked the nib of his pen. He started to write, his bald head keeping what he was writing from view but Arthur caught his mutterings. "Male Omega, late-twenties, got a ring on his finger: mated. Name, Arthur -" He peered up at him and asked, "What's your name now?"

Arthur stopped himself from tucking on his gloves again. "Geary. Arthur Zachariah Geary," he sighed and settled back. This was going to take some time.

Atticus started writing again, "- née Delaney, son of late Horace Delaney. Brother of James Keziah Delaney-"

"Half-brother," Arthur interrupted, but Atticus didn't seem to mind since he snickered and jotted something down carefully. Arthur's eyes narrowed at the sound, but he didn't have time to question it when Atticus's next question caught him off guard.

"Any pups?"

"No," Arthur growled with such ferocity that Atticus glanced up. He was quickly losing his patience. "Was that your question?"

"Hang on. I'm making a profile." Atticus continued to write, asking Arthur mundane questions that were easy enough to answer. Arthur stayed patient. He knew when he was being baited.

"Now, how did your brother survive that shipwreck on the coast of Africa?" Atticus didn't look up as he asked this.

_There it is_.

Arthur didn't show any outward reaction.

"I haven't the faintest. With your many eyes and ears, I expect you know more than I," he dismissed.

Atticus nodded slowly as if this conversation hadn't been a farce set up to glean information about James. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Nesting habits?" he asked suddenly.

Arthur blinked, taken aback. He hadn't made a nest in a long time. "You're taking the piss."

Atticus grinned, revealing a row of blackened and yellowed teeth.

"Atticus," Arthur warned, "I am starting to suspect that you simply desire my company."

"And what lovely company you are, my dear." Atticus laughed, receiving a baleful look at the endearment.

"With all this stalling, I'm inclined to believe you really did murder my father," Arthur said through gritted teeth.

Provoked by the accusation, Atticus slammed his fist down on the table with enough force to shake the dense wood. Arthur twitched with the instinctual urge to cringe away at the spike of aggressive pheromones, but he gritted his teeth and stayed seated, shoulders drawing up in defense.

Atticus faltered. He eyed Arthur for a moment before slumping back in his seat, but the fire didn't leave his eyes. "I sailed around the entire globe with your old man! I did not kill him." His gaze didn't waver, and Arthur could see the rare honesty in them.

There was a heavy pause.

Atticus took off his glasses as he mulled over his next words. He folded them with care before stowing them away in his breast pocket. "About a year ago, I was approached by a gentleman who offered me a sizable sum for Horace's head. I refused and threatened to slit his gizzard if he tried anything for good measure. Never got his name, but I could tell by the cut of his jib that he was up from Leadenhall," he muttered bitterly. Then he snorted. "Twitchy bastard was stupid enough to take out his snuff-box before he left — must've forgotten the engraving. Still don't know who the bloody hell 'T. G.' is, though."

_T. G_.

Arthur knew that name.

The force of his fury momentarily stole his breath. His jaw clenched hard enough for his teeth to ache and he twisted his leather gloves until they creaked — Arthur stopped before he ruined the material. The tremor in his hands would give him away, so he snatched up his hat as he stood.

Atticus observed him with keen eyes, having no doubt caught each one of his involuntary reactions.

"I trust you know what to do if this man ever reappears. James will foot the bill if he doesn't get to him first," he said in lieu of farewell and Atticus gave a wordless nod.

Those initials. He knew them well.

Thorne - _fucking_ \- Geary.

Blinded by anger, Arthur stormed down the streets of the slums, uncaring of his surroundings. Thorne had tried to have his father assassinated. Arthur twisted around on the empty street and slapped his gloves against a barrel, trying to reign in his surging emotions. His anger could be construed as unjust because hadn't he dreamt of slitting his father's throat numerous times? At least he had good reasons for wanting revenge. Thorne hadn't done it out of love for him, but out of greed, which was unforgivable.

_He will die for this_ , Arthur vowed. After the reading of his father's will was over, nothing would stop him from doing what he'd waited for, what he'd longed for, for so many years.

"Bastard!" he hissed through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathed in deep, and felt ill when the scent of putrefaction assaulted his senses. The barrel he'd slapped contained pale and bloody entrails and unsalvageable bits rejected by a butcher. Nose wrinkling with disgust, Arthur quickly moved on, stepping onto a broader street. He was almost driven down by a large horse-drawn wagon carrying bed frames and furniture.

The driver shouted profanities at him when he narrowly sidestepped out of the way. Two young women sat on the end of the cart, wrapped in what appeared to be bed hangings. He recognized one of them as the girl who had approached James at the wake. They blew him a kiss as they passed, their bare legs hanging over the rail. They were bound to catch a cold dressed like that.

Arthur frowned and quickly shook his head at the ridiculous thought — what whores did was none of his concern. He kept walking, and his gut sank when he realized where his feet had taken him. He was almost upon the Delaney Shipping Company, his father's old office. Which now belonged to James. Arthur wasn't an imbecile. His father would never allow his company to fall into the hands of his Omega son.

It was too late, he could see his father's old plaque, and in front of it stood none other than James Keziah Delaney. Even with his back to him, Arthur knew it was him. Besides his brother stood a sneering blonde, her lips curled and the ghoulish green shadow around her eyes crinkled as she snarled something at him. Arthur was vaguely familiar with her. It was the matron of the German brothel, a favorite of his late father, but he couldn't remember her name.

It didn't matter.

James closed the heavy steeled door to the office and gestured to the matron mockingly. She pulled out a key and locked it before shoving it into James's waiting hand and spat on the ground by his feet. She made to leave, taking a step in Arthur's direction, but James turned and grabbed her arm. Now facing them, Arthur could see James's intense expression as he spoke to her, gesturing with the key to emphasize whatever he was saying.

Arthur's heart thrummed inside his ribcage, anxiety freezing him momentarily, and to his horror, James glanced over her shoulder and right at him. Arthur quickly looked down to obscure his face with the brim of his hat and turned down a side alley, hastening his pace. This hadn't been a part of the plan. James wasn't supposed to be here. The only thing that he could do now was to retreat and hope that James hadn't seen his face.

He turned down a back alley, the brick and timber walls of the houses on either side causing him to feel near claustrophobic as the road narrowed. It was deserted, and a glance over his shoulder informed him that no one was in pursuit. Arthur's heart started to calm.

Just as he thought he was in the clear, a hand reached for him out of the shadows and yanked him onto another side street. Arthur's shocked inhale sounded loud in the silence as James pressed close. His hands flew up to put his palms on James's chest, whose overcoat was unbuttoned, and Arthur could feel the inviting warmth radiating from him.

He pushed James back a step.

"Hello, Arthur."

James had him cornered. Immediately Arthur felt the pressure of him probing at his subconsciousness like he'd done at the funeral, enticing Arthur to let him in. The touch was gentle — like James was reaching inside of him to cradle the end of his bond.

Arthur's hackles raised even as a near-violent shudder went over him. The starved and subdued Omegaen part of him all but keened with joy at James's familiar touch, urging Arthur to welcome their Alpha with open arms and reciprocate the gesture.

Arthur stomped it into submission.

James was now close enough now to smell The Dolphin Inn and subsequently Atticus on him, and his nostrils flared. "I wasn't aware you associate with Atticus and his ilk," he growled.

"Not even Atticus's files could encompass all that you are not aware of, James," Arthur answered cooly, pretending that he couldn't feel any of James's coaxing.

"Hmm." James didn't appear put out by this.

They were sharing air now, and Arthur's breath hitched. Heat blistered through him as his body reacted, stirring from a deep sleep at James's presence. It had been so long since Arthur had felt the rousing of arousal that it drove him to distractions. He wasn't at all prepared when James took off his own gloves and, quick as lightning, got his fingers underneath his cravat to wipe away the scent blocker. The touch was enough to stimulate his scent glands and leave a claim that left Arthur gasping. Satisfied, James removed his hands and pressed Arthur into the wall, their chest touching at each inhale.

Arthur blinked furiously, lightheaded by James's proximity, who seemed to be just as distracted by his scent because he didn't notice when Arthur inched his hand into his pocket for his gun. James looked down in mild surprise when the muzzle of the pistol pressed into his gut.

"Do you intend to shoot me, Arthur?" The question was mocking.

Arthur scowled. "I have yet to decide if you're worth the bullet. What do you want, James?"

"You," James answered without missing a beat.

"I'm not on offer," he snarled, raising his hand to push him away.

James caught it and examined the golden ring on his finger. Arthur had forgotten to put his glove back on. He felt the barely contained violence beneath James's gentle touch, could feel the strength hidden in James's hand. It aroused his most base instincts. Should he tug his hand free and flee or submit?

Arthur did neither.

"Pretty," James observed.

Arthur reminded him of his gun, pressing the steel hard against his abdomen. "Release me," he demanded quietly.

James's eyes bore into his. He let go of him but didn't take a step back. "You wear that ring even though it signifies nothing. You belong to me." He appeared confident that Arthur didn't have it in him to pull the trigger because he inched closer again.

Arthur was tempted to shoot him out of spite. "I belong to no one." He pushed away from the wall and forced James back by the point of his gun.

"Oh, but you do. Just as I belong to you. We are one and the same after all. Entwined for the rest of eternity," James crooned, his breath brushing against Arthur's skin tantalizingly.

"Since when do ghosts get to boast such ties to anyone?" Arthur deflected breathlessly, and James made a curt sound of amusement in the back of his throat.

"I still love you," James repeated. Instead of sounding gentle and loving, the words were just as ominous as they had in the wake, but Arthur knew that he meant them.

He shuddered. Feelings that had long since been suffocated in a loveless marriage now clawed their way to the surface at James's urging, and his heart hammered in his chest as their bond was set alight, fluttering hopefully throughout his traitorous body.

"You always say that like it's an answer, but I tire of the endless torment you have brought me."

"Then let us end our strife and make amends," James persuaded softly.

Arthur's resolve was unraveling at the seams. He needed to put some distance between them. The desire to give in was all too tempting, so he sought a distraction. "I know of my husband's dealings with the East India Company, and I have no wish to be a part of their schemes," he declared.

James made a doubtful sound in the back of his throat.

Insulted by the insinuation, Arthur's shoulders drew back. "You think I care for riches?" he spat, leveling a chilling glare at James. "In the unlikelihood that Horace Delaney kept me in his will: I, Arthur Zachariah _Geary_ , hereby relinquish my share of the will, including the treaty with Nootka Sound. You won't have any opposition from me, James. I'll write it down in blood if you don't believe me."

Evidently, James hadn't been expected Arthur to be so frank, his handsome face turned expressionless.

"Now, if that is all, I'll be on my way," Arthur scoffed and made to leave, but James stopped him.

"No. There is more." The gravel of his voice, so close to his ear, distracted Arthur, and he tried to hide his responding arousal. James caught it anyway, and he lowered his voice to murmur into his ear, drinking in Arthur's feature with a burning intensity. "I have registered the Delaney trading company with the Lloyds, and after I have restored our father's offices, I will ready my ship so that when the time is right, and the Company has fallen, we can leave. Together," he promised.

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Arthur shook his head slowly, his nose bumping against James's, and his mouth slackened in disbelief. "I would laugh if this weren't so sad. You come back, still singing the same song: that we'll be free to be together. But. You. Left." He spat the last words.

The ' _me_ ' went unsaid.

"I am back now, and I have no intention of leaving you behind," James growled, still poking and prodding at their bond, and Arthur's chest burned.

It was maddening.

Arthur wanted to call him insane, but to say his brother was unwell would be the height of hypocrisy. The same madness plagued Arthur, and they both knew it.

"I need you," James said, near fervent now when he saw how Arthur's resolve weakened.

_Too soon, too soon, too soon_. Arthur was at the end of his tether.

"No, you don't. You've made that abundantly clear," his voice came out soft. James's arms kept him in place, but the gun felt heavy in Arthur's hand. His back fell against the wall as his arm slackened until it hung limply at his side.

Their chest pressed together as James closed in. "Please, let me make up for all the wrongs I have done to you, my love," he breathed and daringly pressed his forehead to Arthur's, knocking their hats off onto the dirtied ground to nuzzle him. Arthur's senses were overwhelmed by him.

_James_. His brother. His mate.

James wasn't unaffected, and both their breaths came in heavy, short intakes, and Arthur was so sure that he was about to kiss him, but the Alpha seemed content with drowning him in his scent. The rasp of his beard prickled Arthur's sensitive skin, sending shudders down his spine.

Arthur couldn't lie to himself anymore. He'd missed this. He had missed James. Just as he was about to give in, he felt the trace of triumph emanating from James, and it sent him hurtling back to reality.

It hurt. Being so easily manipulated.

Furious, Arthur ripped open their bond, just as James wanted, and drew up every single traumatic emotion that had haunted him since James's abandonment. It was a stupid decision, driven by petty revenge, and he pushed too hard. James pulled him in, latching on so tightly that Arthur's feelings turned into vivid images as his darkest of thoughts played out before their eyes: _a barren room with barred windows, a cradle: empty, agony, a wedding, a fire, a bed: pain, Thorne above him_ — No, no, no! Arthur tried to reign it in, but James tugged, desperate to see it all — _a rip, a tear, drowning, death, and he was utterly alone_ — James flinched, eyes wide and unseeing, but Arthur knew that worse was to come and wrestled for control with all his might — _a stranger: a priest shouting in Latin, holding him down, violating him_ -

"Enough!" He shoved James back with all his strength. It forced James back a step, and they stood at an impasse.

Arthur panted with humiliation, torn open. James didn't deserve to see him so vulnerable. Not anymore.

It was time to put an end to this.

"Do not approach me again." Arthur's voice was brittle but firm, and James didn't move when he shouldered past him. He didn't care enough about his hat to pick it up from the ground, and, without another word, Arthur walked away.

James didn't stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my calculations, Part One will be 13 chapters, give or take :D


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Thorne being Thorne, sexually explicit content (not Thorne), and angst!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After going back and forth, I decided to split this chapter into two, so it's not murder-time yet :(  
> I plan on posting the next chapter sometime after my mid-term exams (wish me luck lol).
> 
> I also updated the tags and did some more editing on chapters one and two so don't be alarmed if you notice a difference! And because I'm apparently turning into a white suburban mom, I've created a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/delfinge/dmf/) for visual representation :D
> 
> **NOTE** that Male Omegas are intersex in this universe because my head was about to explode over the logistics and mortality rate of cesarean/assisted butt-baby births in the 19th century... also they deserve to get the best of both worlds with all the crap they need to put up with living in a patriarchal society. 
> 
> Not Beta read!

Part 1.3

**The Meeting**

_Chelsea, London, 1814_

-

“What on earth are you wearing?”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the hallway. Thorne shouldn’t have been home yet, but that was unmistakably his voice. His husband stood by the doorway of their parlor, still wearing his overcoat and riding gloves, surprised outrage etched across his features as he took in Arthur’s attire.

“Your maid told me you were running errands,” Thorne said, the skin around his eyes tightening in disbelief.

Rendered mute, Arthur could only blink. It was a wonder Thorne didn’t hear the furious beating of his heart from there. He would need to pass him to get to the stairs, and the chances of getting that far were slim.

He was trapped.

Thorne seemed to regain his composure and stalked towards him. “Now I’m half a mind to sack that little liar,” he sneered.

At hearing this, Arthur jolted from his stupor. Ariadne was his servant, not Thorne’s. He puffed up with indignation. “I pay her with my own allowance!” He refused to be cowed when Thorne came to tower over him.

Thorne gave him an ugly smile. “And I own you, so all the money you have is what I allow you to keep,” he said, voice rich with satisfaction, but the smile slid off his face when he was close enough to smell Arthur and the claim James had left on his skin. The blood visibly drained from his face.

“What have you done?” he whispered, still as stone.

Now was the time to retreat. Arthur quickly slid past Thorne before he blew up, intent on reaching the bathroom and put a locked door between them.

“I did as you ordered me to,” he explained as calmly as he could, which wasn’t all that calm. There was a faint trembling undertone to his voice as dread choked him. Arthur prided himself on his ability to plan ahead, but somehow this confrontation hadn't even occurred to him that morning. He wasn't prepared.

Throne whirled around, going after him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Ordered?” He backed Arthur up against the wall, getting right in his face as he spat, “Have you gone mad? You think this is what I meant when I told you to speak to your brother?”

“Take your hands off me!” His grip hurt, and Arthur pushed Thorne away hard enough to make him stumble back a step. He took his chance and ran for the bathroom, and all but sprinting up the stairs, Thorne hard on his heel. He barely cleared the last step when Thorne launched himself forwards and grabbed hold of his coat tails, wrenching hard. Arthur gasped as his back crashed into the wall, stumbling to get away from his mad husband. Thorne’s fury only grew as he breathed in the remains of James’s scent, jealousy turning him into a snarling monster when he no doubt caught the tinge of Arthur’s answering arousal.

Ariadne stepped out of the bathroom before Thorne could start shouting again. Her eyes went wide at the scene before her. She was holding an empty bucket, a light sheen of sweat on her brow, and her hair was coming undone from her braid. She must have been drawing Arthur a bath so he could wash off the scent blocker before Thorne came home. It was too late now.

“Your bath is ready, sir,” she said, voice pitched louder than usual in alarm.

“Leave us!” Thorne bellowed. He looked positively wild now; nostrils flared, and the skin on his face pulled taught as he snarled the words.

Ariadne flinched but opened her mouth to argue. Arthur quickly shook his head at her. She was powerless to do anything right now, and anything she said would be held in contempt. She knew this, having been put in this situation before, and gave Thorne a mutinous glare before complying and stormed down the hall.

She was hardly out of earshot when Thorne rounded on Arthur again. ”Do you intend to wash off his stains?" His grip around his shoulders was bruising as he slammed him against the wall again and again, and Arthur clawed at his hands. "I can smell him on you like piss in a whorehouse!"

"Unhand me!" Arthur seethed and finally managed to wrench out of Thorne’s hold. He pushed him away with all his might and was already across the threshold when the Beta’s back hit the opposite wall. He slammed the door shut, fumbling with the latch as his fingers shook, and let out a gasp of relief when it finally slid across the lock.

“Open up this instance!” Thorne roared. The door trembled as he threw what sounded like his entire weight at the barrier between them. Arthur backed away on unsteady legs and sank down onto the floor with his back to the warmed tub. The door would surely break if this continued and Thorne might just kill him this time. He was relentless, kicking and banging on the door like a child throwing a deadly tantrum. Arthur didn’t move, determined to wait him out as he had for years. Soon enough, Thorne calmed, and his threats turned to sweet cajole and bargaining, but Arthur knew better than to believe a word of it.

Instead, he undressed, eyeing the door warily for any sign of it giving, and stepped into the tub. He sighed softly as the warm water immediately set to loosen his muscles and settled down to wait. It felt like an eternity before Thorne gave up and left him in an oppressive silence.

The solitude was both a blessing and a curse. Arthur's thoughts turned on him, and he couldn't help berate himself. It was astounding how quickly his plans unraveled whenever James entered the picture. Why is he still so weak? The question haunted him, and Arthur put his head underneath the surface to suffocate his mind. Now was not the time for regrets or he would finally lose his mind.

.

The sun had long since set when his peace was disturbed. Arthur had abandoned his bath when the water grew cold. He sat naked by the window and was observing the world outside when Ariadne knocked gently on the door to announce her presence. He pulled on his robe but was slow to open the door, wary that Thorne might be lurking on the other side.

She was alone.

Thorne must have dismissed her for the evening because she was wearing her off-duty clothes; a gray dress and a dull brown coat with frayed hemming, but she handed Arthur the new garments which she’d hidden under her petticoat. He was grateful for the change since it would only provoke Thorne if he caught sight of his old clothes again. Ariadne took them and didn’t comment on their smell. James's smell. She folded them with care, rolling them up inside his jacket, and stowed them away in her handbag before turning her attention back to Arthur.

“He requests for you,” she said at last. Her doe-like eyes were wide, and Arthur sighed. He didn’t have the energy to offer her reassurance when he had no idea what awaited him.

“Where is he?”

“In the dining room.” Her lips curled, and she looked down to conceal her abhorrence for the master of the house.

“Did he trouble you?” he asked. Thorne’s threat still rang clear in his mind, but Arthur would sooner kill him than send Ariadne away.

“No- well, he went through my bag and told me I wasn’t to cook dinner anymore. Says he’s going to employ a proper cook,” Ariadne muttered with a trace of bitterness.

“And how shall we pay this new cook, I wonder,” Arthur scoffed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a calming breath. Ariadne mistook his ire for weariness.

“I can still cook meals for you, sir,” she hastened to reassure.

Arthur opened his eyes and thawed when he saw her sincerity. “That is most kind of you, but I am perfectly able to cook my own meals. I cannot allow you to do work when I have no way of paying for it.”

“I don’t mind,” she argued, but Arthur held up a hand.

“Go home, Ariadne.” His voice was gentle but brooked no argument. Ariadne knew this and deflated, unable to challenge a direct order without insubordination. She curtsied to him with great reluctance, and shot him one last look, urging him to change his mind. Arthur stayed silent and watched her leave.

He was alone with Thorne now.

Arthur took a fortifying breath before heading downstairs. The halls were dim, the oil lamps flickering their last in the night, and he slowed when he saw that the door to the dining room stood ajar. He could only hear his own breath as he entered. The table was clear of food, but Thorne sat at its head. He didn’t look up when Arthur came in, content to hold up his glass of red wine to the light and swirl it around in silence.

Arthur regarded him warily from the other end of the table. He wasn’t hungry in the least and didn't heed the silent order when Thorne finally gestured for him to sit next to him. He chose to stand a foot away, out of reach.

“I apologize for my behavior. It was most ungentlemanly.” Thorne was calm, which should have been Arthur’s first warning.

He said nothing in return, unnerved by the almost serene quality to Thorne’s tone.

“I had hoped the priest had cured you,” Thorne continued and took an unsteady sip, already well on his way to becoming drunk. A knife went through Arthur’s heart, and he was completely thrown off kilter. James had already poked at the festering wound today and being reminded again so soon by  _Thorne_ , who’d denied any wrongdoing and forbade Arthur from even mentioning the matter, disturbed him to his core. Foul memories of that damned priest and his vile touch burst in, and Arthur gripped the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white.

Thorne was merciless and took as much pleasure as anger in seeing Arthur’s fear because he would. Not. Stop.

“My dearest, Arthur. I apologize that I am not related to you.”

Arthur barely had time to be shocked by the words because Thorne hurled his glass to the floor and jumped to his feet. It shattered with an ear-splitting noise and stained their carpet an irrevocable crimson, and Arthur backed up as his husband advanced. All too soon the wall touched his back, trapping him. He raised his shoulders to shield his vulnerable neck, but that didn’t stop Thorne from grabbing hold of his shoulder in a grip that sent a sharp jolt of agony across his already sore skin.

”Why is it that you let his seeds take hold, but your cunt won’t swallow the work of an honest man?" Thorne asked. There was a note of earnestness in his voice and Arthur almost pitied the man, but the pain and disgust he felt snuffed out his compassion.

It took him a moment to realize Thorne’s meaning. His mouth fell open in horror because in truth: they had taken hold twice before. But his body had rejected Thorne’s spawn, and thank god it had. Arthur knew that he would have come to love their child and then he would have truly been trapped for the rest of his miserable life.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur breathed, feigning ignorance. Thorne couldn't possibly know. Only one man who still walked this earth, now bitter and bowed with age, knew the entire truth, and he would take the shame to his grave.

Thorne shook Arthur hard enough to make his teeth rattle. ”You truly think me that stupid? To think I've spent years trying to get you to love me and you never showed me an ounce of the passion that nigger has brought out in you!” He let out a derisive laugh, the sour smell of spirit wafted from his stale breath. "Now, I know better. The only thing you require to sate your lust is shared blood.”

His words were vulgar enough to make the likes of Atticus blush, but Arthur’s patience reached its limit for the night.

“You are drunk,” he hissed, trying with little success to break Thorne’s hold. He hadn’t denied the claim.

Thorne didn’t say anything, but something tightened in his expression. He struck Arthur hard across the face without warning. The force of the blow made Arthur’s face turn, his sight blurring as his left ear exploded into a piercing ring. He kept his head bowed. There was a moment of silence. Arthur’s skin throbbed, and he salivated with the desire to sink his teeth into Thorne’s throat and tear. He kept still. His silent mantra of soon, soon, soon, was the only thing keeping him calm.

Thorne chose to take his silence as a sign of submission. He always did. He cradled Arthur’s face to tilt it up, fingers tight in warning as he held him still to press a chaste kiss to his brow. It was a gesture that should have brought Arthur comfort, but it only served to enrage him further. He kept his eyes closed, and breathed in Thorne’s pheromones, so bland compared to James’s.

“Go to bed,” Thorne said at last. “Your heat will return, and we shall try again.”

They couldn't even afford new china, and he spoke of children? Repulsed, Arthur couldn’t have been happier to leave. He rubbed his sleeves over his face the moment he was out of sight to get rid of Thorne’s foul taint. His cheek smarted and the pure loathing on his face didn’t help the pain. The desire for vengeance was like poison to his system.

Soon.

He didn’t have a key to lock the door to his room, Thorne had seen to that, so he dragged a chair over to it and put it under the door handle. It was as much for his own protection as Thorne's.

Arthur wouldn’t be accountable for his actions if he were disturbed again tonight.

 

* * *

 

Light shone on him with such piercing brightness that it colored the inside of his eyelids white. He was upside down. Blood rushed to his ears, yet the sensation of vertigo was strangely absent. An unseen force inhibited his movement. He was a prisoner inside his own body. The loss of smell on top of his sight rendered him completely blind and eternity seemed to pass. He was terrified to even draw breath for fear of breaking whatever spell that was keeping him bound to the earth.

_Arthur_.

A smooth rumble scratched the surface of his mind, infiltrating his slumber. He’d heard the voice somewhere before.

A sharp ‘crack’ of wood breaking underfoot broke the spell. He whirled around, eyes opening for the first time and hissed as they seared with over-saturated brightness. The sky was pale, and there was no sun in sight, yet everything seemed brighter than Arthur had ever experienced before. His other senses slowly returned as well, and the sharp scent of pine needles and something he couldn't quite put his finger on - it was musky and oh so delicious - tickled his nose. But the pleasant scent was suddenly overpowered by the pungent pheromones of an Alpha in rut that permeated through the air. It made his hair stand on end.

Arthur turned around.

Across the clearing stood a masked figure who appeared more beast than man. It was unmistakably a male, and the sound of Arthur’s racing pulse was deafening in his ears as he took in the stranger: He wore a circular mask of smooth dark wood with two narrow holes for sight and a deep gouge where his mouth should be. Long strands of peeled bark and white threads of beaded feathers encircled it. They covered his chest but left his legs unhindered, and the sight his straining erection disturbed Arthur all the more when he became aware of his own state of undress.

The air licked at Arthur’s bared skin, and he couldn’t control his shiver of arousal when it traveled across his body, cooling the slick that was starting to collect at his cleft. Even in his vulnerable state, the Omega taking over his mind noted that this Alpha was _not_ his mate.

The predator took a step forwards as Arthur stood utterly defenseless, so he did the only thing he could.

He ran.

The Alpha gave chase, but Arthur was fast. He hardly registered the pricks of small sticks and pebbles to his soles as he hurtled past trees bearing leaves of white. The world had become a disorientating blur of black and white, but Arthur forced his body to go even faster when the heavy panting of his hunter closed in. His thundering heart sounded like a beating drum inside his chest, and the echoing chants of the nightmarish forest spurred him on. Invisible hands stroked against his skin, luring him to lay down onto his knees and be mounted on the forest floor like an animal. Arthur wanted to — he was already panting with exertion, and his slick made the rub of his thighs all the more sweet like he was in heat, but he didn’t want this masked stranger.

He wanted James.

The thought had hardly registered in his mind when another Alpha, this one seemingly human, came careening onto their path up ahead. Arthur screamed in frustration, but his shout turned into a cry of relief when he saw who it was.

_James_.

Then it clicked. It was him. The voice chanting in the sky and the musky scent that surrounded them. This was all James’s doing.

Though visibly surprised, James didn’t falter and launched the spear he’d been holding. It flew over Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur knew his aim was true when the deep guttural roar of the rivaling Alpha threatened to deafen him. The sound was inhuman, but he didn’t even slow to see if the spear had felled the beast.

James was sprinting for him. Arthur saw now that he wore primitive hunting gear, nude except for a narrow loincloth that hung low on his waist and barely covered his groin. He wore a long beaded necklace as well, but Arthur didn’t have time to appreciate the sight of the dark geometric patterns that covered James’s body or the odd row of deliberate scars — the likes of which Arthur had never seen before — because neither of them had slowed their pace. They collided, hard, and Arthur landed roughly on the ground. His breath was punched out of his gut when James fell on top of him. Dirt and leaves scratched against his sensitive skin and his eyes flew open. James’s face hovered above his, alight with the achievement of a hunter having caught his prey.

The sight of him took Arthur’s breath away.

James encircled him in his arms and held him fast. The sensation of the wooden beads of his necklace rolling between their chests made Arthur shudder, and he grasped James’s shoulders as he bore down on him. Arthur didn’t have time to think because base instinct sent sparks of contentment throughout his body at the sensation of warm skin against skin. James covered him with his weight and Arthur couldn’t speak — could hardly keep his eyes open — as his body went limp underneath James. Instead, Arthur’s hands had a mind of their own and his palms stroked up James’s flank, nails scratching the ridges of his scars and muscles in appreciation. His legs spread on their own accord to accommodate James and the act of willingly surrendering, what his body had craved for what felt like centuries, struck him dumb.

Arthur dug his fingers into the meat of his shoulders when James leaned down to press biting kisses along his neck and shoulder. A warm tongue quickly soothed the rasp of his beard, and Arthur arched his neck for more. The rumbling groan from James spurred him into action, and he turned his head to nuzzle into him, wrapping his arms and legs around James to lock him in place as he took deep, greedy inhales of his mate’s scent. He moaned again when James pressed him even harder into the ground, grinding against him as they sought friction. Arthur bucked against him in frustration when the leather loincloth got in the way. How were they to mate when the damn thing acted as a barrier between their flesh? James didn’t tug it down like he’d expected but held him still instead.

Arthur didn’t understand why they’d stopped until an impatient tug went through his chest. The touch wasn’t physical, but it made him squirm all the same in an attempt to get rid of the itch the sensation left behind. It was like a ghostly remembrance of a sawed-off limb.

“Let me in, Arthur,” James murmured, sounding like a man dying from thirst. “Give in to me, my love.”

Yes. It would be so easy, so rewarding to give in - this was his mate. They belonged together. Not yet, a small voice from inside him cried out, and it gave him pause. Why shouldn’t he welcome his Alpha home? It had been so long since James had held him in his arms. The dawning realization of just why it had been so long opened the hatchet Arthur had buried with the loss of everything he held dear. He feared for his sanity when the unrelenting grief battled its way to the forefront of his mind.

Being reunited with James couldn’t erase a decade of agony.

Arthur couldn’t bear the pain for much longer, but he was too vulnerable to defend himself against its ceaseless barrage. James was saying something, whispering temptation into the crook of his neck, and Arthur felt the press of lips to his scent-glands - claiming him with much more intimacy and care than James had in that alley.

He tried to let go, but James held him fast.

“No.” Arthur’s voice sounded pitiful, even to his own ears. It was akin to the whine of a wounded animal. Tear prickled his eyes, and he pressed the back of his head into the forest floor and arched his neck to turn his face away from James so he wouldn’t see them fall. It angered Arthur, this weakness.

He couldn’t allow it to destroy him again.

“Not yet.” Arthur’s sudden snarl was deep and guttural, and he directed his anger and grief at James for the second time that day. James froze, paralyzed by the potency of the raw emotions and Arthur used the opportunity to attempt his escape.

He needed to get away from James.

He owed it to himself.

It seemed to trigger something. The earth beneath them ripped open, and James shout of rage echoed in his head as Arthur was sent hurtling to the surface-

-and awoke alone in bed.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut as a sob tried to wrench free from his chest, aching in both soul and body. The flame that had taken to spreading through his insides now ate at the pain inside his heart with a vengeance. He was sweltering, and another wave of feverish heat rose inside him and settled in between his wantonly spread thighs, aggravating the throbbing ache James had left between his legs. Arthur hadn’t felt this aroused in a decade and it was all too easy to relent, to hide away from the pain, and let the Omega take control. His nightshift was bunched up underneath his armpits, and slick already coated his inner thighs. Arthur moaned as he arched helplessly into the air, mid-thrust and straining after the remainder of his mate. The air inside his room was turning humid, and he gasped as he brought a hand down to touch himself.

Arthur’s impotent cock twitched when his fingertips bumped into the crown, but he wasn’t interested in getting off the way he usually did. Not when he could feel how soft and pliant his folds were, a rarity for him. It hadn’t always been like that of course, but James was the only person who’d ever made Arthur pant like a bitch in heat.

_James_.

Arthur rubbed the heel of his palm over his prick as he sought down further; to the place where he was now positively dripping with slick. The tips of his fingers came into contact with his slit and found it fully unfurled for the first time outside of his heat in years. He cautiously slid a finger between his folds, pressing down to rub over the little nub where it hid under its hood, and bit back a groan when his core throbbed in answer.

Arthur wanted more - no, needed more.

He spread his vulva to trace the soft and pliant folds of his entrance and pushed one finger inside. The effect was almost instantaneous. His back arched, and he cupped himself as he chased the sparks that lit up his insides with a finger. He grabbed a fist-full of his bedding with his other hand to anchor himself and took in a deep, steadying breath. The remembrance of James’s scent remained on his tongue and Arthur flipped himself over to bury his face in his pillow. He groaned with frustration when it only brought him his own scent and the smell of cotton and down stuffing.

Where was James?

It didn’t matter. Arthur would take care of himself. His knees slipped further apart on the sheets, and the motion spread him open for the empty expanse of his room. He brought his hand up and pushed two of his fingers deep inside, imagining James’s much thicker and coarser fingers in their stead. It worked, and they slipped in smoothly, rubbing and pressing against his soft, fleshy insides as he searched for the spot that never failed to bring him ecstasy. He bit his pillow as his insides throbbed again, and Arthur couldn’t keep his muscles from tensing as his soft walls clenched in welcome. He wasn’t looking to draw this out. The need was too great, and to Arthur's satisfaction, a white-hot flash of pleasure lit up his nerves when the pads of his fingers brushed over the desired place. He stroked it mercilessly with a firm hook, whining as he pushed himself towards his climax. He’d forgotten how sensitive he was, and soon his thighs jolted as his back arched to get away from the stimulation, but there was no escaping the touch since his spread thighs kept him locked in place.

A mix of determination and a willingness to let himself feel everything without thought sent him hurtling upwards, a surge of heat igniting nerve endings throughout his entire body in rapture. It didn’t take long. All too soon, his climax slammed into him, catching him off guard and every muscle in his body tightened to the point of agony. His walls clenched around his fingers like a vice, insulted at the lack of a knot, and Arthur feared his body would do itself harm as it wound itself tighter still. Thankfully, it eased after a breathless moment, and the strain left his muscles, leaving him breathless and floating in a haze of sated lust.

He sank down onto his front, grimacing as the weight made his awkwardly angled wrist ache. Arthur drew out his fingers with reluctance, whimpering into his pillow when his body resisted, trying to draw him back in as his walls milked empty air and slick, still searching for James's knot. Carved out and empty, Arthur kept his eyes closed, warding off the wave of sadness, and wished that sleep would take him while his mind was silent. It did not. Every single part of his body ached but the slick cooling on his skin was starting to itch, and Arthur was forced to peel himself from his bed sheet to clean it off.

Looking into the mirror on his vanity in the dark, he saw what a mess he’d made of himself. His face was tear-stained, and he’d bitten his lips raw. It was a wonder they weren’t bleeding. A red mark was swelling across his left cheekbone where Thorne had struck him - Arthur didn't linger - and that was when he noticed the ring of fingerprints encircling his throat, leftover from the morning before when Thorne had pulled his neck back to subdue him. He screwed his eyes shut as his skin crawled. Those bruises were like a brand, telling all who saw that he was an unruly Omega who needed a firm hand to guide him.

Forcing himself to move on, Arthur sighed when he noticed that his ordinarily tidy hair was now a riot of thick curls which stood on end. It would be a pain to tame, but that seemed a reasonable price to pay for giving in to the devil. He grinned at the thought. His shift was a lost cause, having ridden down with gravity, and he pulled it from where it had stuck against the spill on his stomach and took it off.

The ewer and basin on his desk were ready with fresh water for the morning — Ariadne’s doing — and he dipped the clean part of his shift in, intending to use it as a rag. The cotton felt rough against his oversensitive folds, and he bit his lips to keep quiet and brushed his slick away with more force than necessary. Finally clean, Arthur’s skin was smooth but washed out in the moonlight, pale enough to be mistaken for a wraith. He frowned when he became aware of the dull ache centered in the meat of his right shoulder.

His mark.

Arthur couldn’t see it clearly in the dark, so he put his palm on it and felt how the old scar was hot to the touch and swollen. Almost as if it were enraged for not having been reopened.

“Shit,” he breathed, his eyes wide as his fingers dug into the sensitive flesh. It didn’t hurt. If anything, it made him want to purr as a warm blanket of calm settled over his mind, soothing his distress. Self-satisfied and fat with its success, the Omega - which Arthur knew he couldn’t hide behind forever because he _was_ the Omega - was sated. For now, at least.

Arthur let out a slightly hysterical laugh. He wasn’t even safe from his own body’s designs. Thorne would call the exorcist again — or kill him with his bare hands — if he were ever to discover this.

The thought scared him more than he'd like to admit.

He held up his shift, now wet with the evidence of his sinful desires, and looked around for a way to dispose of it. Thorne would find it if he hid it within his laundry. The Beta had taken to checking his laundry to know when he was bleeding, so putting it in the basket was out of the question. The fireplace would have to do.

Arthur carefully arranged the shift around a log and soaked it liberally with oil from his lamp. The pungent odor of the liquid stung his nose, and he quickly opened his window, heedless of the frigid air that nipped at his bare flesh.

Throwing caution to the wind, he tossed in a lit match and had to back away when the fire roared to life. It grew unnaturally fast, but Arthur wasn’t afraid. Time was inconsequent to his sleep-numbed mind. He didn’t know for how long he stood there hypnotized by the dancing light, the scorching heat from the flames warded the cold away. He should be thinking, planning his next course of action now that James was knocking on his door, but it was no use.

Arthur blinked and turned away from the light. He crawled back into bed and gave into the soft darkness that was calling his name.

.

Ariadne was gracious enough to allow him to sleep in the next morning, which was fortunate since Arthur’s room stank of ash and petroleum. His breath misted on his exhales. The air inside was wintry from having the window open all night, and his nose was stuffy. It didn’t help his mood. People were known to die from an insignificant cold, but at least the scent of his slick and arousal was gone.

Thorne was nowhere in sight when he finally emerged. Ariadne was waiting for him with breakfast in the garden since the weather proved to be surprisingly nice for the season. The clouds were ever-present, but the hedged garden-wall shielded them from the cold wind and provided them with a little spot of seclusion.

Ariadne eyed the blooming bruise on his cheekbone but didn’t comment. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and sitting outside had given the apples of her cheek and the tip of her button nose a healthy glow of pink. She poured him a piping cup of coffee, black, no sugar or milk, and thrust a plate of buttered scones towards him. Arthur took one and pushed it back to her and ordered her to take one for herself. There was enough for the both of them. They ate in silence and watched a pair of skylarks call out to each other as they picked the ground for worms. It was a pleasant way to start a day.

Ariadne broke the quiet. “The messenger boy came round this morning to deliver this,” she said and procured a neat letter from the folds of her skirt. Arthur recognized the handwriting and broke the seal with little care.

It was a summon from Thoyt.

He sighed and folded it into his pocket. The codger was terribly vague as usual - slippery snake - but Arthur couldn’t shake off his apprehension. He knew there was an ulterior motive to this; it was highly unusual for a lawyer to call on a married Omega without their husband's approval. The invite had purposefully excluded Thorne, but that may have been because Thoyt delighted in vexing the man.

“We’ll be going out today,” he answered Ariadne’s unabashed curiosity.

“Shall I acquire a carriage?” she asked. It would take her some time since he didn’t own one as one befitting a gentleman was much too costly, but it was possible to rent a cab by the main street. It wasn’t a reliable method, but they were pressed for time and it would take too long to go on foot.

Arthur nodded and rose. “The sooner we leave, the better. I need to be at Mr. Thoyt’s office at noon.”

“On such short notice? How peculiar.” Ariadne noted but picked up the tray she’d brought their breakfast out on, and they headed inside.

“Yes, but we shall heed his call. It is never wise to keep a lawyer waiting,” Arthur answered with grim amusement.

Luckily, they didn't have to travel far. The townhouse Thorne had inherited from his parents was in Chelsea, so they had a few minutes to spare when they reached Thoyt's office, which resided by Lincoln's Inn. It was hardly Arthur's first time there, not after The East India Company had summoned him to discuss trade in the weeks preceding his father's death. Thorne had done most of the talking - in fact, Arthur had hardly spoken a word during those meetings, something that irked Thorne greatly since they needed his approval, for formality's sake, to go forth with the dividing of property. Their optimism would have been amusing if Arthur didn’t loathe them so much. It only showed how little they knew their enemy.

Horace would never leave him any property for them to divide.

Arthur paid their driver and made his way into the tall brick-walled building with Ariadne in tow. There were lawyers and assistants alike rushing about on business. Ariadne seemed hesitant to stray further than the impressive oak timbered entrance hall, but Arthur didn't allow her to slow as he approached the lobby desk to announce their presence. He recognized the whiskery young Beta sitting behind the counter as Thoyt's assistant, but he had never bothered to learn his name.

"I'm here to see Mr. Thoyt," Arthur said without preamble. The assistant jerked up in recognition, attempting to bow at the same time as he hastened to stand up, sending his chair screeching back as he lurched forward.

"Ah, yes! Just a moment." He was gone before the words left his lips, his scampering footsteps retreating down the hall.

"Is such zeal a part of their trade or is he unique in that respect?" Ariadne murmured into his ear, her earlier reserve replaced with impish delight.

Arthur stifled a snort.

“Shall I wait here?” she asked, eyeing the waiting area, where dour-faced gentlemen and widows sat together under the mutual cause of money.

“No, I won’t leave you to the vultures. There should be a chair for you by Thoyt’s office,” Arthur reassured. And if there wasn’t one, he was certain the assistant could provide one in no time.

As if summoned by his thought, the assistant returned as quickly as he left, announcing, "Mr. Thoyt will see you. Follow me please."

He led them down a long corridor with enormous ornate paintings hanging on both sides, Mr. Thoyt was an apparent admirer of Dutch painters. The assistant gestured to an open door. Ariadne took the vacant chair beside a depiction of Rembrandt's Danaë — a copy no doubt, only the Prince Regent could afford the real thing — and drew out her knitting needles. She smiled sweetly at the assistant, who’d been about to advise her to take a seat, and he dithered for a moment before retreating to his desk again.

Arthur held back his amusement and closed the door behind him when he entered Mr. Thoyt’s office. The interior of the office stood unchanged from his last visit. Unlike the hall outside, there weren’t any paintings decorating his walls; instead, the same rich wooden panels covered the wall, and the floorboards still creaked underneath his feet.

Mr. Thoyt, still as wrinkly as ever, rounded his massive oak desk to greet him. He gave Arthur a swift bow of his waist, who inclined his head in return, before drawing out one of the two chairs in front of his desk for him to sit in. He was careful not to touch him, as it would be improper of them to exchange scents.

“I do apologize for summoning you here on such short notice, Mr. Geary,” he began when they were both seated. He held a white handkerchief between his hands and Arthur’s suspicions deepened when the Beta began to twist it in a nervous tic.

Arthur didn’t beat around the bush. “Why have you summoned me, Mr. Thoyt?” he asked.

Thoyt didn't answer him at once but glanced over Arthur’s shoulder with a sigh. "I am afraid we can't begin without your brother," he confessed.

"My brother?" Arthur asked in alarm. It finally dawned on him what this meeting was about and the blood drained from his face. He should have known. James was on his way, he could almost feel him. The empty chair beside him mocked him.

"Yes, as the new Head of the Delaney family, he needs to be present for us to proceed," Thoyt continued as if this was all standard procedure. He must have forgotten that there was nothing standard about Arthur's family.

He should protest. Instead, laughter bubbled from Arthur and Thoyt stared in astonishment, not finding the situation at all amusing. They didn’t need to wait long. James had already arrived. His distinct footfall strode down the uncarpeted corridor and with it came a spike of awareness in the back of Arthur’s mind. It was stronger than ever, and James wasn't even inside the room yet. Arthur wanted to curl in on himself and hold his breath to keep from giving in the moment he smelled James. He did neither and straightened his spine and looked down at Thoyt in an austere manner.

"Ah, here he comes," Thoyt said, but he didn't appear relieved by the fact. Mixing James into this business was akin to lighting a fire beneath a powder keg. They both knew it.

Arthur glared at him.

The handle of the door turned before Thoyt could rise, and it flung opened to reveal James. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday - and at the funeral come to think of it. Didn't he have any other clothes?

Before Arthur could do more than blink at James, who appeared far too smug for his own good, Ariadne had leaped to her feet.

“Oi, wait your turn!” she exclaimed, and in her outrage, her dockland accent cropped up. It turned her words rough, similar to Atticus's manner of speech, though it had none of his jovial quality.

James's brows rose in mild surprise at her wrath but had the gall to share his silent amusement with Arthur. She looked ready to stab the Alpha with her knitting needles.

Arthur almost wished she would.

James shot him a look, no doubt aware of his wishes since he'd made no effort to hide it, but Arthur outwardly remained a blank slate.

Thoyt, irritated with the scene they were creating, said, "He has an appointment, Miss."

Ariadne's glare didn't abate, and Arthur intervened before things got out of hands.

“At ease, Ariadne," he called and didn't bother to hide his humor. It served Thoyt right for not giving them a proper warning.

She lowered her weapon but didn’t back down. “'Tis common courtesy to knock, sir,” she huffed.

“Hm. Quite right,” James agreed, undaunted. Ariadne was a full head and shoulder shorter than him. It was quite comical to see them square up.

“Yes. Well, come in, Mr. Delaney,” Thoyt said with impatience when she wouldn’t budge.

“Close the door, dear,” Arthur said a small smile. The endearment slipped out, but he stood by it, and she preened before slamming the door shut on James's heels. Unfortunately, it didn't make him stumble, the bastard. His presence seemed to fill the room as he strode in and took the seat beside Arthur without waiting for Thoyt's approval. It was a wonder he didn't lean back in his chair and put his boots on the lawyer's table.

“Loyal,” James commented with approval, unabashedly roving his eyes over Arthur’s features.

Arthur pretended to not hear him. It was childish, but he would rather stab himself than show how out of depth he was. The last time he’d seen James, he’d been crying underneath him in a dream. For once, the Omega was silent, still sated from its victory last night. Small mercies.

James made a low sound of amusement at his avoidance, but Arthur felt his concern brush against him like a wheedling cat. It made everything worse. Then the sudden flare of anger from James’s end of their bond reminded him of the mark on his cheek. It didn’t hurt all that much and truth be told, he’d forgotten about it in all the excitement. Still, Arthur was quick to turn his face away because it was mortifying to sit here with Thorne’s punishment branded on his face.

Thoyt cleared his throat. “Welcome, gentlemen. This is a delicate matter, and I did not think it prudent to take it up before the public reading of Mr. Delaney’s will.”

Arthur’s eyes bore into the lawyer with such ferocity that Thoyt soon averted his gaze to James as he spoke. That wouldn’t do. “Why does he need to hear this?” he cut in and was pleased when his voice came out just as sharp as he'd intended it to.

Thoyt sighed like he was dealing with a particularly willful child. “Because the contract states that as your father’s heir, your brother inherits the rights to it. All we need is his signature, and then we can continue to go about our business.”

“What contract?” James frowned, finally taking his eyes off Arthur to address the lawyer.

Mr. Thoyt cleared his throat and let go of his handkerchief to hand him a rolled up piece of parchment. “This was drawn up for your brother’s, er- first marriage. It was written out of precaution rather than a necessity since it would only take effect at the event of either the bride’s or groom’s death. Sadly, it came into use not a week after the ceremony with the groom's untimely demise. It was renewed for your brother’s engagement to Mr. Geary.”

James bristled at the reminder of Arthur's married station but unfurled the parchment to read it. The room was silent while he read and Arthur's chest burned as his brother's mounting fury affected him.

Again, he didn't let any of this show.

Suddenly, James threw the scroll onto the table. “This is a slave contract,” he spat, and the paper crumpled underneath his forefinger when he jabbed at it, “Why the fuck did you draw this up?”

To punish Arthur for their sins. Of course, their lawyer didn't know that.

Thoyt hastily drew the contract out of harm’s way. “This is a prenuptial agreement, Mr. Delaney-“ he started but James wasn't having it.

“Between the father and groom," he scoffed.

“Yes, as is very common when it comes to a bride's dowry." Thoyt's voice was calm, but his handkerchief was back in his hand. "I agree that it is rather excessive, but we do not make deals with slavers - besides, slaves didn’t get contracts,” he added with a sniff, “I may not have wholly agreed with your father’s choice, but I have mouths to feed-”

“What dowry? I see no mention of the bride getting anything! This isn’t about the fucking money-” James had begun to rise from his seat, and Arthur's head throbbed as his rage hit him like a battering ram.

“James,” he spoke quietly, and James halted mid-sentence, “Calm yourself.”

It was the first time Arthur spoke to him today, and James ground his teeth in frustration. After a tense moment, he finally sat down and contented himself with glowering at Thoyt.

“So my brother now holds the same rights as my father did if something should happen to my husband or myself?” Arthur asked, already exhausted with the proceeding but kept the same calm quality to his voice.

“Yes." Thoyt didn't hide his relief that one of them could see reason. "That is, if Mr. Delaney signs it, as he is the Head of your family. Otherwise, the dividings will resume as customary; between husband and wife.”

“I’m not signing this shit,” James snarled.

“Then all of your brother’s possessions, including his share of the inheritance, will go to Mr. Geary,” Thoyt argued.

James's short fuse lit again, and he actually growled this time. It rumbled from deep within his chest, and the hair on Arthur's nape rose at the feral sound. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders, instinct begging him to stay still and draw as little attention to himself as possible from the predator in the room; to submit and bare his belly; to spread his legs- Thoyt's crumpled face paled when the Alpha leaned forwards with bared teeth. It was too late. The show of power had already piqued Arthur's wicked interest, and he crossed his legs tightly and rolled his eyes at his brother's display.

It occurred to Arthur that they could ask for a revision of the blasted contract, but it was unnecessary. If he had his way, then Thorne wouldn't be breathing for much longer. And if he fails? Well, Arthur was confident that James would only be too happy to seek vengeance. Either way, he'd get his way in the end. With that in mind, he took a calming breath and intervened again before his brother could murder their lawyer.

“Sign it," he said, and the air froze in their lungs as James slowly turned his head. Arthur met his gaze and raised an unimpressed brow in challenge. Was James willing to throw all his plans out the window for the simple pleasure of ripping Thoyt's throat out? He was curious to see if his brother had learned a semblance of control in his death. James considered him for a moment. Could he see what Arthur was thinking? Perhaps, because he snarled out a breath but faced Thoyt again, who was quick to provide him with quill and ink. James yanked the contract towards him and wrote his name on the new line below their father's name.

“Will that be all?” Arthur was back to ignoring James's hooded gaze. It wasn't lustful per se, though his possessiveness was there for all to see, but considerate. He was plotting something, and Arthur would have his balls if he disrupted his plans.

Thoyt dabbed at his forehead with his ruined handkerchief. “For now," he said, eager to be rid of them. "We will know the final proceedings of the division in five days hence when the final reading of Horace Delaney’s last will and testament takes place.”

“Then I bid you good-day, sirs.” Arthur rose and left without deigning to give them a bow.

Ariadne had already risen from her seat, most likely attracted by the sound of raised voices. She didn't question Arthur and fell in step with him, jogging to keep pace with his long strides. He walked like the devil himself was on their heels.

“Get a cab,” he commanded in a clipped tone when they were outside, and Ariadne scurried off towards the stable with a determined air. The stable boy had best keep out of her way, Arthur thought, but he was too distressed to derive any of his usual amusement from it. He moved away to stand to at the right end of the building, staying out of direct line of sight but still close enough to the road to jump into a carriage without wasting time.

The fresh air would have done wonders to clear his mind if James hadn’t found him before he could draw another breath.

“Not now, James,” Arthur said without turning to him.

James wasn't having it. He turned Arthur around to face him. His hold was firm, but he was careful to not jostle or hurt him. It would have made life easier for Arthur if he had been forceful. Or cruel. Like Thorne. He took in a shaky breath but kept his eyes closed. This must be what Orpheus had felt when faced with his temptation. And oh, was Arthur tempted.

James's breath fanned over his face. “All you need to do is ask, and I will help you in whatever way I can. I will kill him,” he swore.

Arthur's eyes snapped open and found James's own inches away. “Do not take that away from me,” he snarled. James's eyes flickered, but he seemed satisfied with his reaction, and Arthur glared into those blue eyes, so unlike his own brown ones. He didn't need anyone's approval, much less from James.

However, before he could open his mouth to deliver a scathing remark, a familiar sounding coo broke the tension. It cracked through Arthur’s icy exterior, and his attention wrenched from James as the world fell away. He stared in helpless wonder as a young couple passed them by. It wasn't the young pair that caught his attention but the bundle in the woman's arm. A small hand reached up, and the mother pressed a kiss to it, smiling when her babe made a sound of delight at her affection. The force of Arthur's longing almost made his eyes water, and it broke whatever spell he was under.

He blinked, horrified that he'd been about to jerk the child away from its parents just to hear that sound once more. When had he become such a monster? Arthur's breath hitched in his chest, and he became aware of how close he was to weeping in the middle of the street. James had seen it all and Arthur bit his lip to keep it from trembling.

He couldn't bear to see James's pity.

“Why did you flee?” James asked, cupping Arthur's face between his gloved palms and forced his face up. A shudder ran up Arthur’s spine. The air around them felt so fragile and he was powerless to draw away from James now that he was so close.

“Not now. Please,” he begged. He couldn’t think straight. Not when he was teetering on the edge of hysteria. He flinched in surprise when James suddenly pressed their foreheads together, too raw to handle the simple touch. Once upon a time, this had been their way of greeting each other, but now it served as a reminder of the rift between them. James held him fast with an edge of desperation.

He is as lonely as I, Arthur realized. He slumped into James, who was now all but nuzzling him. It grounded him, and James seemed to take as much comfort as he did from the action. Their breath mingled, and he was about to return his brother’s affections when James went and ruined the moment.

"What did they do to you, my love?" he whispered. Arthur pushed his head against him, driving him back in renewed anger. James opened his eyes but didn’t go far.

"You have no right," Arthur bit out, trembling like a leaf. From anguish or anger, he still wasn't sure, but it didn’t stop him from pushing the blame onto James. "You left!"

The words struck home, and James flinched like it had been a physical blow. Silence reigned. “Alright,” he spoke at last and took a deep breath before letting Arthur go. “We will speak again soon,” he promised.

And then he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time posting smut - how'd I do? Also, I thought I was exaggerating Thorne's vileness, but after watching Taboo again, I can say with certainty that he really is a piece of shit. 
> 
> I've been tinkering around with the idea of creating a podfic for this story. Should I go for it? Let me know your thoughts and opinions - I love hearing from you guys!


	4. The Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter contains the depiction of child labor in the 19th century, subsequent child abuse, and the vision of an infant's corpse!
> 
> Not beta read! 
> 
> ...Enjoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap:
> 
> "What did they do to you, my love?" he asked. Arthur pushed his head against him, driving him back in renewed anger.
> 
> James opened his eyes but didn’t go far.
> 
> "You have no right," Arthur bit out, trembling like a leaf. From anguish or anger, he still wasn't sure, but it didn’t stop him from pushing the blame onto James. "You. Left."
> 
> The words struck home, and James flinched back.
> 
> Silence reigned.
> 
> “Alright,” James spoke at last and took a deep breath before letting Arthur go. “We will speak again soon,” he promised.
> 
>  
> 
> And then he was gone.

Part 1.4

**The Company**

_Lincoln's Inn, London, 1814_

_-_

Arthur didn’t know where he would be without Ariadne, who proved herself yet again when she returned with a carriage.

“I told the driver to take us to Covent Garden,” she informed him, and Arthur stared at her in bewilderment. Covent Garden? Where half of London’s population was bound to be? Arthur felt slightly ill at the prospect. The market was chaotic at best and in upheaval at worst when a thief was caught in their midst.

Ariadne knew this well from her duties as a maid, but she carried on with confidence. “Your stock is running low, and I thought perhaps you would enjoy the distraction.”

“In Covent Garden?” he asked in incomprehension and felt foolish for even needing to ask. Had his encounter with James dulled his wit?

“Yes. Lots of odd people and odd odors,” she said primly and unwrapped her red scarf from around her neck. “We wouldn’t want the Master to know about our little excursion. He’s bound to be sore if he finds out that we didn’t invite him,” she explained sensibly.

Arthur blinked when she arranged the scarf around his neck, allowing the fabric to catch and drag across his face. Her sweet scent of lavender and clary sage tickled his nose and comprehension dawned on him when he realized that she was concealing James’s scent with her own.

_Clever girl_.

He hardly had time to feel grateful when unease settled in his gut. She knows - or is bound to suspect by now - about James.

“There. Now you’ll stay nice and warm - don’t think I didn’t hear your sniffle this morning. You won’t be dying from a fever on my watch,” Ariadne was saying, and Arthur stared at her in wonder.

No. She couldn’t know or else she wouldn’t be here helping him, much less sharing her scent with him as if they were family. She would have spat on him and left to find a better employer - a better friend.

A furrow grew between her brows at his continued silence, and she tucked her hair behind her ear in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. “Or we could return to the house if you are weary,” she backtracked.

Arthur forced himself to relax and bumped their shoulders together in gratitude. “No. Covent Garden is a splendid idea.”

He was unworthy of the relieved smile Ariadne gave him. He didn’t deserve her, but he was far too selfish to drive her away.

Covent Garden was still thriving with life despite the lateness of the hour when they arrived. The first thing that hit Arthur was the smell. It was so overpowering that he couldn’t even smell the filth in the Thames which flowed nearby. The stink of animals and produce had him pulling out his tin of peppermint salve, the strongest on the market, and offered some to Ariadne for them to put under their noses before they fainted from the sheer stench.

He still hid his nose in her scarf, finding her scent a blessing when it eased the strain, but poor Ariadne had to bear the brunt of it. Determined to not waste time in getting what they needed, she marched on into the thick of it, passing large barrels full of pungent flowers, imported spices, and iced fish, but not stopping at any of them even when the merchants did their best to capture their attention.

It was hard to keep track of anything after that. Arthur couldn’t hear himself think, let alone understand anything Ariadne said to him. He simply nodded and allowed her to haggle with the sellers and tow him around — not unlike how the mothers around them pulled their children along. The abundance of produce and merchants, all with their own way of bargaining, only pummeled Arthur's mind further into silence and left a fearsome headache in its wake.

She was good at it too, knowing instinctively when someone was trying to cheat them, and it was almost relaxing for Arthur to watch in passive silence as she argued with them. He even stayed unresisting when they were jostled by the people shouldering past them. That was the whole point of all this, wasn’t it? For him to lose the scent of James so Thorne wouldn’t kill him the moment they got back home.

_Wasn’t that a cheerful thought_.

People of all class and genders were moving about. Dirt poor beggars huddled between booths, ducking from angry merchants who didn’t want them scaring away potential customers; weary mothers, both poor and rich, who held onto the arm of their husbands or chaperones as they sought to finish their day’s errands; and servants from all over London bustled about on their masters’ business - some notably bearing the King’s crest on their chest. Most of them were Betas, but the occasional Alpha passed Ariadne and him by, sometimes straying too close for Arthur’s comfort. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and even pulled a defensive snarl from him when one of them, a tall female, looked at him for too long. Ariadne was quick to tug him out of sight before someone took it as a challenge.

Needless to say, Arthur was ready to go home.

Ariadne seemed to think so too because she directed them through the throng towards the long line of carriages that offered to drive weary pedestrians home for a fee. It was then that they almost walked into a pair of match girls. Arthur wouldn’t have noticed them if the taller hadn’t had such a carrying voice.

“Matches! Matches!” she bellowed, forcing a grin when people passed them by as if they were invisible. Arthur saw how she tried to conceal the way she was supporting the notably smaller girl beside her. They were wretched things to behold, no older than twelve, and the tattered hems of their dresses didn’t hide the fact that they were barefoot. Both had the same dirtied blonde hair poking out from under their threadbare bonnets. Sisters then, which would explain why the taller was risking her job by caring for the other.

“I’ll have a box,” Ariadne called, and the two girls stumbled their way through the muck to them.

“Thank you, missus,” the elder said and held out her palm for their pay. Her fingers were bruised from repeated strikes of a whip, giving away her temperament. Arthur gave her more than was due when he saw the deformed shape of her sister’s phossy jaw underneath her scarf. The young girl would likely be dead from the disease before the month was out.

The small girl pulled a small matchbox from their bag and handed it to him with trembling hands.

“God bless, sir,” she thanked him in a weak voice, slurring slightly as her jaw refused to move.

It was despicable, seeing these children worked to their bones. Arthur despaired to see such a precious gift squandered. Children were innocent. Every single one of them deserved their protection, their love, and care. How could society abandon them so? How could he have abandoned him so?

His lungs didn't seem to be getting any air, and he tugged Ariadne’s scarf away to catch his breath. With renewed awareness, he now noticed the little workers that he hadn’t seen in the crowd before. Ariadne pulled him along with dim eyes and put her arm around him as his breath grew noticeably shallow.

They passed a blackened line of sweepers who waited by the carriages. Most of the workers were definitely younger than the two sisters. They were all so small and brittle-boned. The tallest, features indistinguishable under the thick layer of charred ash, could hardly have reached the age of ten.

“Sweep, sweep, sweep! Chimneys, hearths; good ‘n’ small! Sweep for a shilling!” Their master called. He was a black-toothed scrap of a man with a whiskery beard permanently stained by ash, but he still wore respectable clothes and even had a cane in his hand!

A gentleman called out an order, and the master pushed two small boys to hang onto his carriage. Arthur felt like vomiting when the master hit one of them in the back with his cane when the boy didn’t walk fast enough. The youngest workers were at the age of three — in fact, most of them seemed to be around that age.

They looked up with pale and sunken faces as Ariadne and he passed.

To be abandoned by their parents and sold into slavery at that age! Arthur would never think it right.

Could it be that his own father may have been so cruel- could he have- No. Arthur mustn’t think of it. It was better to believe that he’d had a quick death by drowning rather than tortured and dying alone-

“Let’s leave,” Arthur all but begged, his heart clenching at the children’s deadened expression.

Ariadne listened and took Arthur away.

.

The sun had just started to set when they stepped out of their carriage. It threw spectacular hues of orange and pink across the sky as it bled on the horizon behind Thorne’s secluded townhouse — Arthur had never come to call it his home. Ariadne seemed to know exactly what he needed. She'd sat beside him in silence and allowed him to catch his breath without interference.

How could Arthur ever repay her?

“The Master is home,” she warned as she handed him the bundle of bread and meat that they’d bought in the market.

Indeed, Thorne was already looming in the doorway. He had the bearing of a soldier from his time in the Regiment, long before he became an accountant. Now, instead of mucking about on the battlefield, he’d turned his hand against those he’d sworn to protect. It would have saved them both a lot of grief if Thorne had just stayed and given up his life for the noble cause.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Thorne’s nostril flared when Arthur neared, but he didn’t blow his fuse, so Ariadne’s plan had worked.

“Running errands.” Arthur sneered back and forced the wrapped meat into his husband’s chest. “For your cook. I thought you might want to eat tonight.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed at his mock.

“We aren’t eating here tonight,” he dismissed, his lips from curling at the sight of Ariadne’s scarf. “Take that hideous thing off and make yourself presentable before we’re late.”

_Late?_  Arthur frowned. Then it clicked. Browning’s dinner party had fled from his mind in all honesty.

“I’m not going,” he scoffed and tried to pass Thorne to enter the house.

Thorne leaned his shoulder against the doorway, halting him, and gave him a look of boredom. “Your feelings on the matter are none of my concern,” he said and bent forward to get into Arthur’s face. His breath was clean, sober for once, which almost made it worse, but Arthur stood his ground. “You will perform your duties, and you will do them with the grace and dignity befitting a good  _Omega_.”

Arthur flinched, and Thorne drew back in satisfaction.

“You, girl. Bathe him.” Thorne snapped his finger at Ariadne, who had come to stand at Arthur’s shoulder, and pointed at Arthur. “You smell like a pigsty.”

He turned and left, but Arthur couldn’t move.

Ariadne stepped up onto the threshold and held out her hand to him. She looked ready to sprint down the hall and jump onto Thorne’s back to bite him. “Oh, that man. That  _man_ ,” she breathed, tiny body quivering. “He needs a good spanking!”

Arthur choked on his snort, knowing Thorne would return if he heard them giggling, and Ariadne’s scowl softened at the sound.

Feeling lighter, he reached out and let her lead him inside.

.

_Good Omega indeed_ , Arthur scowled as he wrenched at the ties of his stay. The laces were on the front, so there was no need for Ariadne to help. His spine straightened as the bodice compressed around his middle and he allowed his shoulders to drop, growing aware of the smooth slope of his neck. It was perverse, how Omegaen clothing was designed to emphasize his posture; they weren’t allowed to show the skin of their legs, but their vulnerable necks were there to bend for the enjoyment of society.

Arthur hid Thorne’s bruising under his cravat.

He buttoned up his white shirt and softened when Ariadne held up a burgundy vest. It was his favorite, spun from the softest silk with a small hand-stitched pattern of black paisley. He was aware that the deep red suited his complexion, and knowing that his evening was already ruined, Arthur was determined to dash any amusement those snooty aristocrats might derive from tittering behind their hands at his appearance.

He nodded to himself in satisfaction when he observed his finished look in the mirror. Dressed in a dark tail-coat, with polished shoes, and his hair was arranged like that of a Greek deity.

He looked positively debonair.

Ariadne clapped her hands at his appearance, and Arthur bowed in light-hearted deference to her judgment. For a lowly servant girl, she had an excellent eye for high fashion and took pride in making sure that he left the house looking nothing but his best.

Not that he needed help when it came to vanity, yet another of his sins.

Arthur snorted at the thought, and Ariadne gave him an amused smile from where she was fixing his cravat. She patted his chest like a doting mother hen when she was satisfied with her work and was about to speak when the door flung open without a knock.

Thorne didn’t step inside, a deep sneer already smeared across his face. He didn’t bat an eye at their closeness, but it didn’t take him more than a second to destroy their gaiety.

“Wear the white vest,” he demanded, knowing full well that Arthur liked this one.

_Bastard_.

“I already have this one on,” Arthur argued.

“Perhaps you misheard? I said to put on the white one,” Thorne pronounced slowly as if he were speaking to an imbecile. “And cover that unsightly mark on your face.”

Arthur was tempted to strike him down with the fire iron.

Ariadne stepped in before he could concuss Thorne by sheer will alone.

“Yes, sir.” She bowed to Thorne and closed the door in his face with forced gentleness.

Arthur turned away from her and started to untie his cravat. Ariadne still stood with her back to the door, and Arthur spied her in the mirror. He saw her open her mouth, but no sound came out. She snapped it shut.

He waited.

She pushed away from the door and went to sit down in his armchair. She crossed her arms and blew out her cheeks. Then, abruptly, she got to her feet and took a step towards him with her mouth open once more, stopped herself, started again, but halted and bit the inside of her cheeks in mounting frustration.

Arthur observed all this with his back to her, confused and a little amused by her antics. It was unusual for her to censor herself when it was just the two of them, so he prompted her, interested to hear her verdict.

“Out with it.”

Encouraged, she finally spoke. “I loathe to stand silent when Mr. Geary treats you so abominably.” She pronounced it haltingly with great restraint.

_Oh_.

“It’s just a vest,” Arthur muttered and pulled on the white one. It washed him out. Cursed thing.

“No, ’tis not!” Ariadne burst and Arthur’s fingers stopped at his top button, eyes growing wide at her next words. “I can’t keep going on like this.”

_She knows. She knows. She knows about James_. He was stunned by how much the thought of her leaving hurt.

“You wish to leave?” He hated how small his voice sounded.

“No, I want the complete opposite - I want you to leave, Arthur! With me!” She raged, but Arthur had a hard time meeting her eyes when they were so beseeching.

“And go where?” he asked numbly. Where could two Omegas possibly go alone in this world?

“Anywhere is better than staying with that bastard!” Her voice grew guttural, reminiscent to her meeting with James, and her shoulders rose with her chest like her body was expanding with the sheer force of her fury.

Though taken aback by her fervor, doubt persisted in nagging him, and Arthur gave her a wan smile. She didn’t know the depth of his sins. If she did, she wouldn’t be defending him so - she would condemn him like everyone had in the past.

“Your loyalty does you credit, but even if we left, it wouldn’t be enough,” he said carefully, and his smile turned bitter. James would never let them disappear into the night. “I do not wish to draw you further into this madness. I am not a good man.”

Ariadne wouldn’t stand for it. “You are good,” she hissed. “I see goodness in you, sir, but I am afraid that circumstance and ill fortune has turned you cold.” She caught herself, but didn't take back her words. “Forgive me, I became too eager. Please do not think less of me for speaking my mind.” Her voice lowered and turned imploring. “I cannot stomach the thought of being sent away by such a cruel master! Let me be of some use to you, sir.”

The thought was tempting. They could pack their bags and be on their way to the continent in less than an hour. But she didn’t know what she was offering. Not really.

“I cannot be certain of the future, but rest assured that it will not fall upon you to act when the time comes,” he spoke with newfound severity, making certain that she was listening despite her agitation. “I will not allow it. Thorne is no one’s business but my own.”

Silence reigned as Ariadne digested his words. Had he given too much away? She was far from being a fool and could easily suss out his meaning.

If Arthur succeeded then Thorne would be dead before the month was out.

Ariadne didn’t seem frightened. In fact, her expression lightened, and she nodded to herself. “I understand, sir.”

“Good,” he said and allowed her to fix his cravat for the second time that evening.

.

In the end, Arthur brushed a light layer of powder over the side of his face. It wasn’t perfect, but it evened out the tone of his skin and, depending on the angle, hid the blooming bruise that was making itself at home on his cheekbone.

Ariadne’s words still rang inside his mind when he and Thorne were pushing up the gravel path of the Browning mansion. Maybe he should leave this place. Perhaps it would be better for everyone involved-

-Thorne suddenly broke the silence before Arthur could finish the thought and took hold of his chin, pinning him with a domineering gaze. “You will not speak unless spoken to. Do not embarrass me. Understood?”

He shook Arthur’s jaw when he didn’t answer.

Unable to nod, Arthur glared, trying to keep his poise in such humiliating circumstances.

“Perfectly,” he bit out.

Thorne didn’t let go of him at once like expected. He turned Arthur’s face so the light from the lanterns on the road could illuminate his features.

Arthur swallowed dryly, hating the silence. Now that James was back, it felt almost unnatural when there came no sensation of Thorne attempting to kindle any sort of connection to him, however feeble their bond may be.

He jerked away when Thorne tried to press a kiss to his injured cheek.

_How dare he?_

“Have some shame,” he breathed, fury turning his voice weak. Did he really need to wait any longer to slit Thorne's throat? After his meeting with Thoyt, Arthur knew that the fucking contract wouldn’t get in his way. James would never marry him to another man, so why wait? No, he still needed to tread with care. The East India Company had a bone to pick with any Delaney and what reason did Thorne have to disappear when everyone believed he was set to inherit a fortune?

No, Arthur would stay patient.

What was another week compared to ten years anyway?

Thorne’s features twisted indiscernibly in the dark and Arthur wondered if it was from remorse or humiliation. He didn’t hold onto hope that it was the first. Thorne always fell back on anger in the end.

Their carriage came to a jarring halt, cutting the tense moment short, and their driver hopped off to let them out. Arthur took Thorne’s proffered arm once they were on the ground, already exhausted by the restraints of politeness, and they walked up the pale sandstone steps in frosty silence. The high wooden door opened to reveal an old and smartly dressed butler. He bowed to them, showing a sparse crown of white hair, and allowed them inside a brightly lit entrance hall.

It was stunning, but Arthur hadn’t expected anything less. Mr. Browning came from old money. He scarcely had the time to look around, taking note of the enormous crystal candelabra hanging from the patterned marble ceiling and cast a delightful glow, before they were greeted by their host.

“Finally, Thorne! Welcome, welcome! I was beginning to fear that you wouldn’t show up!” Arthur had never formally met him, but Peter Browning was a stout man with neatly parted silver hair. He wore a fine suit with silver buckles and had likely been very attractive in his youth but too much sun, lavish meals and expensive liquor had aged his features and given him a slightly puffy appearance. His smile was still handsome, and he seemed genuinely delighted to see them.

“Awfully sorry, my friend! Got a bit caught up with the missus,” Thorne chuckled like they were all sharing a private joke, and Arthur wished for the chandelier to break and crush them all to escape the humiliation.

“Ah, understandable. No matter, you’re here now,” Browning said and clapped Thorne on the shoulder in a familiar greeting. He turned to Arthur and feigned ignorance. “Who is this lovely creature on your arm?”

It was like someone had flicked a switch in Thorne, who was now all handsome smiles and charm. He unhooked his arm from Arthur and put his hand on his lower back, presenting him for his friend’s inspection with a laugh. “Peter, you sly old dog! Allow me to introduce you to my darling Arthur.”

Arthur wouldn’t be his anything if he had a say in things.

“Tales of your dark beauty have not been exaggerated.” Browning practically oozed charm, bending down to kiss the back of Arthur’s hand.

So he was a Beta then. Arthur had almost taken him for an Alpha with such a presence, but an Alpha would never touch an Omega in so familiar a greeting. If he’d been a young debutant, Arthur might have blushed at the extravagant address, but he wasn’t so easy to impress, and his mouth only twitched in what could be interpreted as a smile.

“Charmed to make your acquaintance. My husband speaks very fondly of you, Mr. Browning,” he said in all politeness and smoothly pulled his hand away.

Browning chuckled in an indulgent fashion. “Oh, I’m sure it’s all lies and exaggeration, but I am happy to be a host to a delightful thing as you.”

Arthur plastered on a flattered smile. It was harmless flirtation, most likely a habit left over from an active youth, but the man was still old enough to be his father.

“Come now, there is no need for such charm. I begin to worry that you’re simply after my husband,” Thorne said with a smile Arthur reckoned hurt his face. This was the Thorne other people were acquainted with; likable and, dare Arthur say it, even entertaining — everything a well-bred gentleman ought to be.

“You know I am bound to the life of a bachelor, my friend. Allow a man his fanciful thinking,” Browning said and offered his arm to Arthur. “But allow me to have the pleasure of introducing you to my beloved ward.”

He led them to the parlor where the rest of the guests waited. It was hardly an intimate gathering. About fifteen people were milling about, and Arthur could pick out the Company men from the crowd at once. They weren't inconspicuous, wearing their coats of black velvet with gilded stitching on the front, and were clearly the most influential people in the room from the way the other guests flocked around them.

Mr. Pettifer and Mr. Wilton, whom Arthur was regretfully too familiar with, seemed to be enjoying the attention even though they weren’t the stars of the evening. Mr. Browning’s influence must reach further than Arthur had initially thought since Sir Stuart Strange, The East India Company’s esteemed leader himself, had deigned to be here this evening.

_How unfortunate_.

Famed for his unassuming Beta countenance, Sir Strange was a balding man of sixty, but he stood in the innermost circle and hid with ease the vicious nature Arthur knew lurked behind the gauze of a genial politician. It was no wonder Thorne practically fawned over him when they were virtual twins in manner. Arthur remembered the one and only time he'd had the pleasure of meeting him in person. Sir Strange was prone to obscenity and angry outbursts, as witnessed when Arthur's stubborn silence on the matter of his father’s will had tested the Company’s patience.

Beside Sir Strange was Lady Strange, his second wife if Arthur’s memory served him right, and the eldest Omega daughter of a first generation Viscount. She still retained her beauty in old age, wearing a silken gown of deep blue with an empress silhouette and, on closer inspection, Arthur noted how her dark ringlets seemed to glimmer with threads of spun silver. She was truly a thing to behold. The only thing that marred her beauty was the haughty draw of her lips, universal to those who knew they were of good breeding.

Arthur had never officially met her but he’d often seen her hold court in societal balls and could admire her for not drowning in her husband’s presence. It was crude, but more often than not, it was a mere symbol of status when a Beta had an Omega on their arm; it was the ultimate sign of virility because it insinuated that the Beta could satisfy their partner without a knot. It couldn’t be said that Thorne had ever fulfilled Arthur in any shape or form, but Lady Strange seemed content with her lot in life, though perhaps it were her husband’s deep pockets than any sexual prowess that kept her satisfied.

“This is my nephew, Robert Fischer.” There was real pride in Browning’s voice when he introduced them to his ward, but Arthur was busy concealing how jarred he was by the name to appreciate it.

_Robert_.

Robert-  _Mr. Fischer_ , was a fellow Omega. His features were too broad for an Omega to be labeled classically handsome, but he was nonetheless striking with his dignified bearing and his unusually pale blue eyes. He smiled amiably at Arthur and Thorne and bowed his head in greeting.

The surname Fischer sounded familiar, and it took Arthur a moment to realize that this must be Maurice Fischer’s son.

Fischer Morrow, Maurice’s trading enterprise, had been a fierce rival to the Delaney Trading Company back in the days before exceeding it with Horace’s descent into madness. Arthur didn’t know the particulars, but a few years back he’d heard the tale of how his own father had celebrated his rival Maurice’s death with such ardor that he’d been fined for disturbing the peace.

Arthur cared little for politics, but it felt like poetic justice to be here when his father would doubtlessly have had conniptions for his consorting with the enemy.

Mr. Browning took it upon himself to lead the conversation after the formalities were over and done with, and it flowed naturally, drawing in various guests, but Arthur made good on his promise and stayed a silent observer. He wasn’t the only one. Mr. Fischer, who Arthur knew was more intelligent than he let on - his eyes were far too sharp to be as vapid as the more vivacious wives. The sentiment seemed to be returned. Mr. Fischer’s eyes strayed towards Arthur more often than not, though perhaps it was because of the rarity of meeting another male Omega. There were so few of them in this Beta dominated world.

Dinner was announced, and the small circles merged together before their hosts. Which meant Arthur was forced to exchange pleasantries with the Company crowd.

Sir Strange was the first to greet them.

“Ah, Mr. Geary.” His thin lips pressed against the back of Arthur’s hand for the sake of formality, but let him go before Arthur had time to be repulsed. Lady Strange and Arthur simply exchanged bows, hers far more shallow than his, but that was merely an assertion of the hierarchy: The Stranges sat on top of the social ladder while the Gearys were the lowest of the low this evening.

The old couple swept on to take their place behind their host, meaning they would be first to walk in as was befitting to their status. Arthur and Thorne exchanged stiff greetings with the Pettifers and Wiltons. Mrs. Pettifer shared an extraordinary likeness to her husband and Arthur would have thought them twins if he hadn’t known that they were third-cousins. Mr. Wilton, on the other hand, was only recently married. She was a pretty thing, a Beta with blonde ringlets and a healthy flush to her cheeks, but she could be no older than sixteen as her breasts were hardly developed behind her delicate white dress. Arthur wondered at their age-gap, but dinner had scarcely been served when he saw why a man of Mr. Wilton’s stature had chosen such a young wife.

A weak-willed but egotistical man like him needed an encouraging audience at all times, and Mrs. Wilton was all too happy to oblige him.

Arthur and Thorne were, unsurprisingly, the last in line and took their seat on the end of the table, the farthest place away from Mr. Fischer. Thorne hid his displeasure at the arrangement but took it upon himself to serve food onto Arthur’s plate. The food was outrageously extravagant; exotic vegetables and meats gathered from all regions of the world — the creamy prawn soup was served in the shell of an armadillo — but Arthur had no taste for it in the present company. Thorne even poured wine into his glass, which he only pretended to take a sip of while keeping his lips sealed tight around the glass, to keep Thorne complacent. Despite having indulged in it quite early in life, Arthur had come to abhor spirit of any kind. How could he not when he’d witness those around him be poisoned by it?

It made fools of the lot of them.

Just as he’d expected, as the spirit flowed and loosened their tongues the dinner conversations grew more enlivened and all too soon trod the line of indecency. Arthur was wise to tune them out for most of the meal because it seemed like no one in society was capable of going through one meal without mentioning James Delaney, London’s returned scoundrel.

Arthur may not be pleased with James at the moment, but few of the guests had actually met his brother, yet all were eager to participate in the conversation. It was a wonder he hadn’t upended his drink onto the nearest speaker before the third course was served.

“Oh, darling, do enlighten us!” Mrs. Wilton, the vapid bint, exclaimed. Arthur would have lit her dress on fire if it could stop her from enabling her fool of a husband. He hardly needed more encouragement to go on another animated rant.

Arthur was careful to not look at any of them, choosing instead to keep his eyes on the lovingly painted portrait of a gentlewoman in frozen silence. He held a vague smile on his lips to keep the murderous turn of his thoughts from detection when his imagination got the better of him and started to play out how he could silence each and every one of them.

To his credit, Mr. Fischer did his best to steer the conversation to a more pleasant ground, but Arthur’s relief was short-lived since the others — Mr. Wilton in particular — seemed determined to continue their debate.

“-wrestled a bear. A bear, I tell you!” Mr. Wilton, Arthur decided, would do well with having his weasel face shoved into the fireplace until his tongue was a shriveled and charred lump.

The painted lady had familiar pale blue eyes, but Arthur didn’t have the energy to wonder where he’d seen them before.

“- Yes, that boy was in need of a good whipping - still does!” Reverend Appleby rumbled, cheeks flushed, and he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination for Arthur to picture the fat bastard drowned in his soup.

“Here, here!” Mr. Wilton exclaimed.

The painted smile was gentle, almost teasing, and on her lap lay a small kitten.

Arthur was brought back to the present when he noticed how Mr. Pettifer, the treacherous swine, directed an unsettling leer at him.

“Yes, a good whipping can do marvels for a disobedient soldier, or even a wife. Fortunately, the need for such discipline has never arisen inside my household,” he mused, and Mrs. Pettifer chortled and slapped his arm lightly, announcing him to be ‘terrible.’

The mark on Arthur’s cheek throbbed, and it became an exercise of restraint for him to not wrench the spit from the whole-roast pig and skewer them both on it.

“How fortunate,” Thorne said stiltedly, having grown pale with the direction of the conversation. He’d been satisfied to bask in their disdain for James Delaney, but they were now hitting too close to home for his comfort.

Arthur could almost forgive their insults for giving him the pleasure of seeing Thorne squirm in his seat.

“Well, if a bear can’t bring some sense into that man then a whip will hardly do the job,” Mr. Wilton scoffed.

“Man? Nay, beast!” One of them - Arthur didn’t know his name but would be happy to stab him in the eye with his fork - was so overcome with censure that his voice boomed around the room as he rose from his seat. Mr. Wilton, the spineless eel, followed suit, jumping to his feet.

“Gentlemen! Be seated,” Mr. Fischer exclaimed in mortification, finally reaching the end of his tether. ”Mr. Wilton, that was a most amusing tale, but I must remind you that we are in the company of a relative of Mr. Delaney. This is hardly appropriate,” he chastened.

The smile slid off of Mr. Wilton’s face and his puffed-up self-importance deflated at this. He cleared his throat and sat down, having evidently been prepared to regale the table further with his tales.

“Oh, Robert. Let them have their fun. It’s simple jest.” Mr. Browning waved his hand dismissively, eager for his guests to enjoy themselves while in his home.

Thorne spoke up, callous as ever. “No, by all means, speak of Mr. Delaney as you like. There is no love lost between my husband and his brother. Isn’t that right, my love?”

Arthur hummed noncommittally when all eyes turned to him.

Sir Strange, who had stayed silent for most of the debate, gave a dry chuckle.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Geary,” he said, inclining his head to Arthur. “Forgive us. I had quite forgotten your relation to Mr. Delaney. You share no likeness in features or temperament, but it was foolish of us to forget when your mannerisms are much the same: he too has little use for words.” He said this in a kind manner, but his eyes remained cold.

“We are merely half-brothers,” Arthur said, forced to play along and bear the indignity of the slight. He may be guilty of loving the wrong man but never had he fallen victim to stupidity.

“Quite right.” Sir Strange chuckled and raised his glass. “It remains to be seen which half is the better.”

“Indeed.” It was easy to decipher his meaning: They would have their answer in less than a week’s time with the results of late Horace Delaney’s will.

The conversations, though not nearly as animated, resumed when the next course was brought in. Mrs. Wilton’s girlish voice could be heard across the table, and Arthur listened to her with half an ear “- it was a most arduous birth. I am so pleased to hear that your dear Louisa will regain her health again,” she was saying to her friend in earnest, but Lady Strange, having grown bored with her prattle, remarked on the beauty of the painted lady Arthur had admired for most of the evening and enquired her identity.

Mr. Browning answered her with dampened spirits. “Mrs. Fischer. Late Maurice’s wife. She was taken away from us much too soon when my poor nephew was left half an orphan at birth.”

Arthur looked up in involuntary interest. Their similarities were racking up; both Omegas and now orphans as well. It was hardly an uncommon tragedy - Arthur could attest to that - but seeing his own melancholy at the subject mirrored in Mr. Fischer’s eyes softened something inside him. Perhaps the wine had slipped passed his lips because he gave his fellow Omega a bitter half-smile when their eyes met.

The tender moment was torn asunder when the others felt prompted to divulge their own experience on the matter. Surprisingly, Sir Strange felt the need to chime in, “I myself am an only child. My mother, an Omega, bless his soul, didn’t have the aptitude for giving birth. He never truly recovered after birthing me. See, it is all about the width of the Omega’s hips. As you can see Mr. Geary and Mr. Fischer are exemplary in that case.”

The look on Thorne’s face expressed what he thought of Sir Strange’s words. Exemplary indeed when he had no heirs to speak of. Arthur had scarcely in all his life felt so uncomfortable. He was tempted to grab the pitcher of wine from the servant’s hand and drown it in its entirety to escape the humiliation. He met Mr. Fischer’s eye on accident over the table and saw that the other seemed to share his plight.

Mr. Browning didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and nodded in agreement.

The last of their meals had been cleaned from the table when Mr. Browning addressed them.

“Now, are you all ready for dessert or would you like a moment to digest our feast, dear guests?” he asked.

The majority nodded in relief, the buttons on their suits straining to withhold their meal.

On cue, Mr. Fischer rose elegantly to his feet and announced, “Let us adjourn, ladies and gentlemen.”

The caste they were to follow was simple really: the Alphas — both male and female — would stay behind with the male Betas in the dining room and enjoy cigars and brandy. The female Betas grouped together with the Omegas — they should just say Child Bearers and be done with it, Arthur silently disparaged — to drink delicate tea and play games in the drawing room.

At least it meant that he would get away from Thorne for a few hours.

They said their farewells and glided from the dining-room behind their host. Their group mostly consisted of female Betas and a few other Omegas, but Mr. Fischer and Arthur remained the only males. Arthur went last and observed their delicate forms from behind. The youngest were swathed in white muslin dresses with delicate lace trimmings, while their elders wore more vibrant colors. Mr. Fischer stood out in his powder blue suit, shoulders broad but his waist tapered in attractively. All of them carried intricate shawls around their arms and waist for warmth, fabric ranging from plain to exquisitely embroidered hem but all doubtlessly handmade.

The mansion's drawing room was surprisingly airy, considering the baroque style the past generation had been infatuated with. Arthur was immediately drawn to the large window that looked out at the manicured garden and saw that they had a maze in the middle of the lawn. Ariadne would have loved to see it. He wondered if he would get away with sneaking outside to examine it more closely, but had to content himself with settling down on the sill to figure out its pattern from above.

He solved it all too soon.

Now that they were in a much more intimate setting, it seemed that Mrs. Wilton had something to prove because she had quickly taken the seat next to Lady Strange, staying so close that it was a wonder she wasn’t in her lap. Despite their extravagance, it quickly turned out to be like any other dinner party; they spoke common-place nonsense, with stupid quizzing but there was scarcely any wit in the room.

If they were bothered by Arthur’s stand-offish behavior, they didn’t show it, which allowed him the freedom to wander even further away to explore the rest of the room. He wasn't in any hurry to sit down to join the twaddle and examined each of the many paintings on the wall, but he couldn’t pretend to be interested in them for the whole evening. However, Lady Luck seemed to favor him at last this evening since he encountered a nook, half hidden by a floor-length curtain. Behind it was a well-loved sofa of tanned leather and next to it rested a large bookcase, each shelf crammed with so many books that it was a miracle they weren’t spilling onto the floor.

Intrigued, Arthur made his way over to them and saw that the sofa was occupied by a cat the likes of which he’d never seen before. It was slender, with an oddly thin shaped face and bat-like ears. If it weren’t for its regal colors, Arthur would have mistaken it for one of the starved mousers. The sleek fur of its back was tawny, and it had an intriguing mask of chocolate brown — the same color that covered its paws and tail like it had sat in a vat of paint — the darker color blending into the fur of its body in a soft gradient.

No mongrel had eyes that chilling a blue.

Arthur approached it calmly, thinking it only right to greet the creature when it sat guard of the bookshelves he wanted to peruse. He held out a relaxed hand and waited patiently when the cat slowly blinked at him. Arthur must have passed its test because it leaned in to sniff his fingers before bumping them against its head, urging him to scratch behind its ears. He indulged it, fascinated by how smooth its coat was and delighted in the shrill trill that passed for its purr.

What an odd creature.

It was calming, and Arthur stood there for a long time, forgetting about the books in favor of keeping it company.

“I see that Saito has made a new friend.”

Arthur turned to see that Mr. Fischer had joined him. The other women were too absorbed in their conversations, their heads bowed together in confidence, to notice that their host had left them. The refreshing scent of clover and wintergreen tickled Arthur’s nose when Mr. Fischer leaned in close to stroke his palm down Saito’s back.

“Saito?” Arthur remarked at the exotic name. It was strangely befitting for such a noble creature.

“Yes. He’s been with my family for a long time. My mother adored him, but he hated my father. He would hide underneath his bed and bite his ankles in the morning. I always wondered why father never put him down.” Mr. Fischer didn’t look at Arthur as he admitted this, content to pet his longtime companion.

Saito seemed to have had enough of their attention and started to clean his paws, revealing his sharp claws.

“Your mother? He’s been with your family for so long,” Arthur wondered. Did cats live for so long? Saito would be well into his twenties by now.

“Oh, he’s an ancient old man. I’m quite convinced he’s immortal — not even a strand of gray on him.” Mr. Fischer chuckled, and Arthur was surprised how intimate the man was behaving. It was unexpectedly nice.

Arthur caught himself and stepped away. “I came to ask him permission to look at his books. Do you think I measure up to his standards?”

“Undoubtedly. He tends to bite those he deems unfavorable.” Mr. Fischer gave him a crooked smile and joined him in front of the bookcase. “Are you an avid reader, Mr. Geary?”

Arthur’s lips twitched. “Oh, whenever I have the opportunity to be alone with a good book.”

Ravenous, James had called him, in his pursuit of knowledge.

“Then, by all means, look to your heart’s content,” Mr. Fischer offered generously.

Just then, Mrs. Wilton interrupted them by summoning their host to settle an argument she was having with one of the ladies. Mr. Fischer seemed surprisingly reluctant to leave Arthur’s sanctuary but duty called and Arthur was left alone with books for company and Saito.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved. It was dangerous how easy it was to converse with Fischer.

Arthur turned to the shelves. One could tell a lot about a person from the books they kept. Thorne, for instance, wasn’t a man of great substance. He preferred to keep their shelves woefully restricted to his approved range of literature, which were his old schoolbooks from when he studied at Eaton, and The Bible — of course — with the small leeway of Dante’s Devine Comedy and Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Anything too philosophical would give Arthur ideas according to Thorne.

Arthur’s brows lifted when he noticed the familiar names of Locke, Hobbes, Descartes, and Hume, and many more, even Rousseau and Montesquieu — the wretched French, enemies to the King! It had been so long since he’d read the words of philosophy and science. Being a conservative at heart, Thorne scorned those wishy-washy liberalists; that Siècle des Lumières, always pronounced with derision.

His finger brushed the spine of Wollenstonecraft’s  _The Vindication of the Rights of Woman and Omega_  and was amazed that Mr. Browning would keep these where his nephew could see.

“Are you a fan of Enlightenment, Mr. Geary?” Mr. Fischer asked, drawing a light start from him after having returned without Arthur noticing.

Arthur was starting to think that, just like his cat, he may have passed one of the host’s own test because Fischer seemed infinitely more warm towards him than the rest of his guests. He was courteous of course, and a charming host, but throughout the evening, he gravitated towards Arthur more often than not, even after Saito had abandoned him. Mrs. Wilton had come over and tried to give him a scratch under his chin, and the feline had quickly retreated from the room, though not before he’d bitten her finger hard enough to draw blood.

She hadn’t approached Arthur again after that.

“Yes,” Arthur admitted and elaborated when Mr. Fischer’s expressed interest in hearing his preferred subject. “I was very interested in Gall’s findings of the human mind, but I’m afraid I haven’t read much of it since I was in my adolescence.”

Mr. Fischer showed new hidden depths when this discovery prompted an animated discussion on the art of phrenology. It turned out that the younger Omega was both an ardent admirer of Gall’s theory and a harsh critic in turn. Arthur was swept up in the infectious enthusiasm, and they were so wrapped up in their conversation that they hardly noticed when a restless Mrs. Wilton attempted to draw their attention.

She gave up on them and sighed loudly for all to hear. “Oh, I long to play charades.” Seeing that she now held the room’s attention, she grew emboldened and entreated to them. “Shall we play one game or will the gentlemen be cross to miss it?”

The thought of the venerable Lady Strange stooping to mime riding a horse for the sake of a parlor game was almost enough for Arthur to take her up on it.

“Charades? Good heavens, girl! Let us sit and rest. We are not all as young and spry as you,” Mrs. Pettifer said from where she sat by Lady Strange’s side. By the tone of her voice, Arthur suspected that it wasn’t weariness but jealousy that had her turning from Mrs. Wilton.

Mrs. Wilton was desperate to regain their favor. “Then should I sing for you? Shall I play you all a song?” she asked her audience and glided across the room towards the white pianoforte which stood by the mantelpiece.

“Ask our host, cheeky girl,” Lady Strange tutted and directed her to them with narrowed eyes, daring Mr. Fischer to refuse her.

Mr. Fischer waved to them with a mild smile. “You may sing and dance until your voice grows hoarse and your legs fall off,” he proclaimed, a hint of dryness in his voice which seemed to escape them because Mrs. Wilton clapped in delight.

“Such encouragement shall not go to waste,” she announced and took a seat behind the ivory keys.

Arthur was forced to take a nearer seat for the sake of seeming polite and was surprised when Mr. Fischer followed suit, sitting down next to him in the loveseat. One would expect the host to sit closest to the performance.

Their knees touched.

Mrs. Wilton wasted no time and soon the room filled with a sweet melody. She turned out to be a proficient player and her high voice, which was almost intolerable in normal conversation, turned into a soothing soprano that was a marvel to hear. But to Arthur’s horror, he found that he couldn’t enjoy the performance. As soon as she struck her first note, he found himself transported to a time of his life that he'd rather forget.

He’d once loved to play it himself, but now only bitter wrath and misery remained in its wake. The harsh pull of wire in his hands and the aching loneliness and desperation that had driven him to attempt such an unthinkable act made him positively ill.

He was stiff as a board and almost shed tears when Mrs. Wilton’s audience demanded an encore. She may have the voice of an angel, but Arthur truly believed in that moment that she’d been sent from hell to torment him.

In the end, she played them three songs with much applause, and it was only when all of his guests were sufficiently distracted that Mr. Fischer turned to Arthur again.

“Are you well, Mr. Geary? Was the music not to your liking?” he asked in concern. The answer should have been evident as Arthur’s face was as pale as a sheet.

Their shoulders touched, and Arthur let out a shaky exhale.

“Oh, yes. It’s my one weakness.” He saw no harm in admitting it since, in a way, it was true. Ever since he was a boy, he’d loved music dearly. It had filled many lonely days in his life, but hearing the piano was something he would likely never find joy in again.

Fischer must have taken his peculiarity for pure rapture at such a performance and drew him into a new conversation. “Have you had the opportunity to see Nicolas Mori now that he has returned from Europe?” he enquired tentatively, but then a frown bloomed on his face when something occurred to him. “Mr. Browning was most kind to invite me to see him next Saturday. It is a shame he is unable to accompany me. I fear I shall not go,” he confessed, his voice trailing off as he looked away.

Arthur had never let the lack of a chaperone stop him from doing something he truly desired, and neither should Fischer. He was a terrible influence. Arthur hid his smile, and put his hand on the back of Mr. Fischer’s hand, drawing his attention. “Oh, but you must! He is said to be one of the most talented violinists of our generation. I have yet to have the pleasure to see him, but I too have plans to see him this coming Saturday.”

Mr. Fischer’s relief brought an honest smile to Arthur’s face, dimples and all. “Together we will have a most enjoyable evening, I am certain of it,” he announced and believed it himself — Fischer seemed genuine enough. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of these cows, who could hang for all Arthur cared.

“What are you two whispering about? Pray share with the rest of us, Mr. Geary,” Lady Strange disturbed them with a haughty glare.

Arthur felt Mr. Fischer shrink back when all conversation died around them, and the ladies turned to them like a pack of well-trained dogs. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Mr. Fischer was simply enquiring if I had had the pleasure of hearing Nicolas Mori play now that he has returned to London,” Arthur announced and Mrs. Wilton gasped with delight at the artist's name, but Lady Strange spoke before she could open her mouth.

“Oh, yes. He played at a little concerto my nephew arranged, you know. Very talented,” she said dismissively and turned back to her court. “Now, my nephew, the one who lives in Edinburgh — you remember the one- ”

Arthur was saved from hearing just what was memorable about Lady Strange’s relative when Mr. Fischer bent his head to his.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Geary?” he offered.

“Yes,” Arthur answered with a crooked smile. “I would love some.”

He had no intention of sleeping that night.

* * *

 

For five days and four nights, Arthur avoided sleep.

But he couldn’t hold out forever, and nature would have its way in the end.

* * *

 

Cool water lapped at his bare toes when he came to, and Arthur blinked against the disturbingly familiar sensation of vertigo.

He was standing on the bank of an unfamiliar lake.

It only took a breath for equilibrium to return, and Arthur teetered to the side as the heavy shroud lifted from his mind. His skin prickled when a layer of dew was left behind as thick mist crawled from between the surrounding trees and glided over the water in front of him.

A woman stood in the middle of the lake. Her head was bowed, and her black hair hung down in coarse tresses, tangling in her feathered neckline. An odd crooning sound carried across the lake from her, almost birdlike in quality. The words were rendered indistinguishable by her throaty voice, but Arthur recognized the tune. It was a lullaby.

She was holding something below the surface of the water.

Her face snapped up, revealing scaly white skin and black tribal markings, but Arthur wasn’t afraid. He knew who she was. That dress. He’d seen it in his father’s cellar. It had belonged to James’s mother.

Anna Delaney lifted her hands from the water and Arthur’s breath caught when he saw what she was holding. Her song ended, and the bundle floating in front of her whimpered.

Arthur knew that sound.

Frigid water surged into the air around him as he made a desperate way towards his child. She watched him in eerie silence, and Arthur was almost upon them when she let the bundle go and vanished from sight in the blink of an eye.

Arthur launched himself forward before his son could sink. He didn’t care where she went. He couldn’t stop. Not when he was so close to seeing his little boy. He needed to hold him. Just once more.

His face was just as Arthur remembered. His cheeks were adorably plump, and those little cupid lips were pursed beneath his button nose. The dark tuft of his hair lay flat to his pale forehead from being in the water, and his eyes were closed in sleep.

Arthur picked him up and cradled him to his chest like he had so long ago. He was shaking, but his pup remained still.

_Oh_.

Arthur tried to nuzzle him, but he was trembling so hard he feared he would harm him. He lowered him to his chest and curled in on himself, trying to offer the little heat he had to his pup. It didn’t matter. He was already dead.

“Arthur!”

His little boy was achingly beautiful even in death, and an anguished whine grew inside Arthur’s chest, but the sound needed breath to carry, and Arthur wasn’t breathing anymore.

Anna rose from the water in front of him, reaching for him to cradle his face between her clawed fingers and pressed their foreheads together. Her skin was as cold as his pup’s, and Arthur shivered when the milky white film over her eyes dissolved.

His own brown eyes stared back at him from her face.

“Arthur!” James was calling for him, but Arthur was too tired to move.

The splash of parting water behind him felt so distant when she pressed their lips together. Warmth bloomed inside his chest, and his lips stung as she drained it from his body. A wicked grin cracked the paint around her lips, and she tore their mouths apart with a triumphant shriek and pulled Arthur down to his watery grave.

* * *

 

James had bought a ship. News carried, and the workers their father had left penniless were in an uproar now that they knew he had the money to pay them.

Thorne was delighted.

"He can't possibly pay them all!" he crowed.

Arthur kept his attention on the road but saw nothing. He was exhausted. The reading of Horace Delaney's will would take place today, and Thorne was eager for it to proceed. He still seemed to be under the impression that Arthur would inherit everything despite being the second born and an Omega.

_Fool_.

“The East India Company will come to regret their decision. They may be right in saying the Alpha trumps the Omega, but man will always conquer beast! Soon, we'll be the owners of The Delaney Shipping Enterprise, and that mongrel will be turned out onto the streets for good,” Thorne said with relish.

Arthur made a noncommittal sound. He was in for an ugly surprise, and Arthur wasn't confident that he would survive if Thorne ever found out about the deal he'd made with James. Hopefully, his brother was wise enough to keep quiet about it.

He just wanted this to end.

By the time they arrived, the workers had already gathered inside the chamber, and tension was high in the air. They were muttering angrily to each other as they waited for the proceedings to begin, comparing the damage Horace Delaney had done to each of their business.

“Budge up,” Thorne said with impatience when their way was blocked by the congestion of irate men. They sneered at them, but Thorne didn’t seem to give a damn. He made Arthur sit down in the front row and took out his pocket watch to check the time. “Late,” he clucked, and Arthur closed his eyes.

He, for one, was relieved that James wasn’t here yet. That fucking dream still haunted him. His peace didn’t last for long. Arthur was jolted from his daze when the sudden uproar of shouts took him by surprise. The workers, who’d been reasonably calm mere seconds ago, were now working themselves up into a frenzy.

So, the guest of honor had finally arrived.

Thoyt pushed his way through the crowd, holding his briefcase to his chest as a safeguard. He frowned but sent Arthur a grimacing smile and a nod when he made his way to his desk up front.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to hiss into Arthur’s ear. “What was that about?”

Arthur frowned at him, a headache already building at his temple. “How should I know a lawyer’s peculiarity?” he retorted, well-versed in the art of lying. “Perhaps he wished to express his condolences for my loss.”

“Loss?” Thorne scoffed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Arthur huffed and turned away from him. He’d rather stare at the wall than react to Thorne’s bait.

James pushed through the crowd at that moment. Arthur could feel the crackle of intent emanating from him. He clenched his jaw but refused to look at James like he knew his brother wanted. It was like a tiger was prowling on the other side of their bond, and a hard yank from James had Arthur glaring at him.

The manic glint in James’s eyes relaxed, and he appeared satisfied to have drawn his attention because he walked past Arthur as if nothing had happened.

Arthur eyed him. Had he fallen asleep in a ditch again? There was dirt caked on the side of James's face, and he looked more like a vagabond than the new Head to the Delaneys. At least all his limbs were intact, though how long that would last when a mob was rearing to have a go at him, was up for debate.

"Where the fuck is the money, Delaney?" A pockmarked man jeered, and Arthur’s brow hiked up in irritation. The noise was getting on his last nerve.

The brim of James’s hat cast a shadow over his eyes, and his thick overcoat served to accentuate the broad set of his shoulders as he leaned back to stare down at the mob with an air of disinterest. He radiated a dangerous calm and Arthur looked on him in dazed fatigue.

James didn't look away, content to stare at him while the workers shouted at him until they were red in the face. Arthur's pulse quickened its pace, and he forced himself to keep a calm exterior despite feeling like he was drowning in that heated gaze.

_Fuck_.

James reached out to him again, but this time it almost felt like an apology. It was so soothing, and Arthur couldn’t help but indulge in it for a moment. He shuddered as the tension drained from him.

He was so tired.

Arthur let down his guard for too long, content to sit there and bask in the warmth, and heat ignited between them when he was unable to conceal his own want. James’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath. To an outsider, it would have looked like James was merely bored or anxious for the proceedings, but Arthur knew better. He wanted to-

-Arthur’s muscles locked up again when Thorne grabbed his hand tightly. He scowled to contain his wince of pain, and James’s jaw clenched, his outer facade finally cracking. He glowered at their clasped hands, murderous intent and possessiveness behind his gaze that only Arthur was privy to.

Arthur tried to extract his hand, but Thorne wasn’t having any of it.

"It's payday, boy! I want my dues!" A stocky man bellowed suddenly, pointing at James, and the rest shouted their agreement.

"Gentlemen! You are all here after receiving written notice of Horace Delaney's death," Thoyt began, only garnering derisive laughter from the unsympathetic crowd. "I'll deal first with the beneficiaries and then the division straight after." Shouts of ridicule met his statement, and he stood up, banging his gavel as spittle flew from his mouth when he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by all the noise. "I said straight after!"

"Shut up, let them get on with it!" Someone among the workers stood up and banged his cane, calming the crowd. "We've waited long enough."

Thoyt settled back down. ”Mr. Delaney died a widower. His two children remain; who are both here at the division today. Of his younger son, an Omega, Arthur Zachariah Delaney, now Arthur Zachariah Geary, there is no mention in the last will."

Shocked murmurs filled the room at this, but it was as Arthur had expected. His father had all but disowned him, but it hurt no less to have it so publicly declared.

Arthur swore that his hand was about to break from the pressure Thorne was exerting, and he wrenched his hand out of Thorne’s hold with a glare, but Thorne wasn’t looking at him. His mouth was pulled into a deep scowl, skin ashy with fury as he glared mutinously up at James.

Thoyt held up a hand. “However a letter was delivered to me by Horace Delaney's manservant this morning, addressed to his son: Mr. Geary.”

_Brace?_  Alarm spread through Arthur and before he knew it, he was on his feet. All would be lost if Thorne got his hand on that letter.

There was no stopping now that all eyes were on him, and Arthur claimed the floor as if he owned it, cutting off Thoyt and the rising censure. He ignored the whispers behind him and walked up to stand before the podium. Thoyt peered down at him, and even James seemed taken aback by his brazenness.

“If I may, I would like to read my letter now since there is no further mention of me in the will,” Arthur announced.

"He's got balls, gotta give 'im that," someone in the crowd muttered, and the others murmured in agreement.

“Oh? Wouldn’t you rather wait and read it in my office for some privacy,” Thoyt offered, and Arthur shook his head. Thorne would tear it from his hands the moment they were behind closed doors. Besides, Arthur doubted these men would allow him to pass through their numbers.

Arthur gave him a wry smile. “No, I can read a mad man’s rambling by the daylight.”

“See, even his own son hates him!” The same loudmouth as before jeered, and the crowd laughed.

Arthur’s smile turned cold, and he held out his hand to Thoyt, lest he turn around to strangle the fool.

“Very well,” Thoyt said after a pause. He waved his assistant over - the jittery one Ariadne had liked - and handed Arthur a thick white envelope. Thoyt’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “I do believe there was no mention of you, Mr. Geary. You hardly need to assist your beloved with reading a letter,” he said with contempt, and the workers roared with laughter at Thorne’s expense.

Arthur looked around to see that Thorne had indeed gotten to his feet.

“Of course not,” Thorne bit out, his ears reddening in humiliation. He sat back down again.

Arthur moved away and took a seat on the window sill.

There was silence as the whole room waited.

“There is no need to wait on my account. Continue, by all means,” Arthur remarked dryly and motioned for the lawyer to proceed.

A rumbling sound of amusement could be heard from James.

Mr. Thoyt cleared his throat, frowning at Arthur’s flippant address, but continued all the same. “His oldest son, James Keziah Delaney is left with the only existing assets of the Delaney estate, including the Nootka trading post and landing ground on the Pacific north-west coast of the Americas, in what was formerly Spanish America.”

It was just as he had predicted.

_I told you so_ , Arthur gave James a bitter smile across the room and James stared at him.

"Whatever you have, you will sell!" The man with the cane was on his feet again, backed up by heckles of support, and James glanced at him but stayed composed despite the challenge.

Thoyt banged his gavel again. "There must be quiet for me to continue!" He shouted to no avail. "Order, I say!”

Arthur had wasted enough time, and he turned back to his letter. It was addressed to him by first name alone; not in his father’s familiar slanting letters but by Brace’s untrained hand.

All the shouting and banging fell into the background when he broke the red seal and unfolded the parchment. Ink spatters, and a jumble of French and English greeted him. There was no structure to a formal letter. It was as if Brace had collected the sheets of paper from his father's desk and put them together in a semblance of a letter. Horace’s usually neat handwriting was distorted by a shaky hand, but it was just as Arthur thought. It smacked of a man desperate to clean his guilty conscience before death. He forced himself to read through the sermons and pleas, and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood when he saw that his father dared mention his name.

_Robert_.

His son.

Arthur couldn’t fathom why Brace had bothered to deliver this. It was a worthless attempt at forgiveness, and completely irrational— everything they had fought to silence was written down for their enemies to read.

Having read enough, Arthur folded the parchment meticulously and only the trembling of his hands gave away his sheer fury. He turned back to the room, ignoring all the commotion, and used Thoyt’s lamp to light the paper on fire.

The lawyer’s continuous hammering faltered, shooting him a look of dismay, but the crowd wouldn't be silenced.

Thorne was too late to intervene, and Arthur held onto the letter until the fire licked at his fingers, singeing the leather of his gloves. He only had eyes for James, who observed him from across the table. There was no hiding his wrath, and Arthur was relieved when James’s questioning —  _concerned_  — gaze was forced away when a man stepped forward and brandished a knife at him.

It was the loudmouth.

“I dug down new foundations for that old bastard, but he never gave me a penny,” he snarled.

“The son does not inherit the debts of the father!” Thoyt shouted. “James Delaney has declared a new trading company in his name.”

James stood up as the workers took to their shouting again and stepped in front of the disorderly crowd with a self-assured swagger. He placed his satchel on the table and upturned it carelessly, shaking out a heap of silver onto the tabletop with such vigor that a few coins rattled onto the floor. He threw his bag down onto the table once it’d been emptied and observed the silent mob balefully.

“My father’s debts amounted to a total of 215 pounds and 17 shillings. Behold, 215 pounds and 17 shillings. Mr. Thoyt will pay each one of you exactly what you are due, but you will form an orderly line,” James said calmly to the gobsmacked men. He let the silence drag before repeating with more menace. “You _will_ form an orderly line.”

Amusement bubbled in Arthur’s chest at James’s theatrics, but he’d seen enough. He passed closely behind his Alpha, and couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over the fabric of James’s coat. His skin prickled through the thick material of his glove, and he took in a slow inhale, savoring James's scent and the way he stilled beneath his touch.

The moment lasted for less than a second, but the tingling in Arthur's fingertips didn’t abate when he walked away.

"We are leaving now," Arthur murmured when he came to Thorne. There was no point for them to stay any further.

"No, we will haunt this nigger to justice!" Thorne snapped, but Arthur’s patience was at an end.

"He is already haunted,” he said coldly, turning towards the door after having one last look at James, who dipped his hat slightly in his direction with darkened eyes. This was far from over, Arthur knew it.

He turned to leave but halted when he caught sight of Atticus standing in the back. He was staring at Thorne with a thoughtful expression and raised his brows at Arthur.

Should he let Atticus deal with Thorne? The offer was evidently on the table.

_No_. Arthur glared back with a minute shake of his head. He would take care of Thorne himself. His face must have conveyed something because Atticus tipped his hat and returned his attention to Thorne, who was in the middle of causing a scene.

The Beta jabbed his finger at James, who watched him in mild surprise.

"Be sure of this, Delaney! That legacy will be your death sentence!" Thorne’s voice was deafening in the stillness of the chamber, but James just continued to smirk. "You hear me? Death!" He turned around and pushed his way through the throng of men who were starting to form a queue. He grabbed Arthur and tried to pull him along.

Already on edge, Arthur snapped. He wrenched his arm out of his hold and Thorne whirled around with the motion.

“I can walk myself!” He snarled, and Thorne raised his hand, ready to strike him for his insolence but hesitated. He wasn’t looking at Arthur anymore, directing his attention past his shoulder, but Arthur didn’t bother waiting and stalked past him.

He cleared the crowd and noticed the woman standing in the back. She looked out of place, dressed in finery with carefully arranged curls peeking out from under her feathered bonnet. Too clean to be a common whore, Arthur wondered if she were perhaps a courtesan.

She gave him a slanting smirk.

Whatever her connection was to his father, she had come for his money like the rest of these vultures.

Arthur’s eyes slid away from her in disgust and left without looking back.

By the time they were inside the carriage, the chilling ache had grown and now gripped his chest in a vice. Arthur had known what the outcome would be yet his traitorous heart still insisted on making its sorrow known. How could he still be so soft after all these years? No amount of acting could separate him from his emotions.

It was a weakness he would never be able to overcome.

His ire grew as Thorne ripped off his gloves and twisted them between his fists with such viciousness that the leather creaking loudly in the silence. The Beta was breathing heavily but didn't speak, his nostrils flaring, and Arthur knew that something had finally snapped inside Thorne.

He struck Arthur with the flat of his palm. His wedding ring caught on his lip and split it open, spilling blood. Arthur reeled back in shock, his hand coming up to cup his lips instinctually but it only exacerbated the sting.

“Do not ever presume to undermine me again.” There was a cold emptiness to Thorne's voice, and dread warred with anticipation in Arthur's gut. The end was nigh.

He flinched back in surprise when Thorne rose without warning.

“Where are you going?” he cried when — back bowed in the cramped space — Thorne threw the door open. Arthur heard their driver shout and grabbed hold of the cushioned seat when the whole carriage swerved as the driver directed his horse from the ongoing traffic.

“To get you help,” Thorne hissed and jumped out of the carriage before it even came to a halt. He stormed off, ignoring the driver's shout.

There was no time for Arthur to find fear because the driver turned to look at him in irate confusion.

“Will ye be gettin’ off as well, sir?” he asked gruffly, mustache twitching.

Wheels turning, Arthur shook his head.

“No. But there has been a change of course,” he announced and grabbed hold of the swinging door to close it. “Take me to the Bank. I’m in need of a boat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a little announcement: I don't have a beta reader anymore so I'll be handing each chapter directly to you. I want this to be an enjoyable experience for everyone, but I won't be able to catch every little mistake, so it would help me a LOT to get your feedback. So, if you have any questions or concerns, don't hesitate to send me a comment! 
> 
> I almost cut this chapter off after Arthur's dream, but I couldn't leave you hanging like that... :P
> 
> What do you think about our new Inception additions? Also, I'm dying to know what do you think Lorna's gender will be - Alpha, Beta, or Omega?


	5. The Righteous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _*kill bill sirens*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo boy… the chapter you’ve all been waiting for! You guys will hate me at first, and then hate me some more :D
> 
> Life is wack and so is my health lol… it’s been so long since my last update that I highly recommend re-reading the last chapter (at least) to get a feel for where we are in the story!
> 
> Not beta read!
> 
> See chapter warnings in the end notes

Part 1.5  
**The Righteous**  
_Chelsea, London, 1814_  
-

A croon.

A whimper.

 _Death_.

 

* * *

 

His fingers dug into the soil and squeezed hard enough to wring dew from the grass trapped in his grip, his knuckles turning white. The strands ripped, and he was left with a fistful of soil. He hurled it into the creek.

Arthur didn’t care.

He didn’t _want_ to care.

But his face ached with Thorne’s parting gift.

Arthur wasn’t temperamental by nature, but he was tired. Tired of the constant fear. Tired of pain. Tired of being tired, but most of all, tired of waiting. Patience was a virtue he’d gained through experience. Unlike his husband, he did not explode in a fire of passion that was then forgotten overnight. No, Arthur’s fury was a hateful thing and as unforgiving as the arctic tundras, and his patience was coming to an end.

Acquiring a rowboat had been easy. It was a wonder what an unchaperoned Omega could get in life with a few well-placed sniffles and teary eyes, along with a little forgery of a husband’s hand. Rowing it five miles upstream, on the other hand, had not been easy. Arthur had blisters forming on his palms to prove it. He’d moored on the secluded jetty, which sat a quarter mile below Thorne’s manor, and tied it to a sunken stump. They didn’t own a boat, so the old wooden planks stood vacant in the sheltered creek, half-decayed from exposure, and covered in slippery algae.

And now, Arthur sat exhausted on the damp ground with mud on his hands, half-undressed from the exercise. He’d sat there for almost an hour, afraid to enter his own home.

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Arthur pushed to his feet with stiff limbs and stretched his aching arms overhead. The ligaments in his spine crackled and popped with his arch, and he groaned in satisfaction. Bending down, Arthur grabbed his discarded coat and stay from the boat, and reached for the throw net he’d hidden underneath. He shouldered it with a sigh and turned to climb the steep slope that stood between him and his bed. All those sleepless nights. God, he could lay down and rest for an age and it still wouldn’t be enough.

The old path to the house was lost in the undergrowth, so Arthur flattened the sere strands of grass underneath his boot to create a new one. He took his time, fighting his growing headache at the exertion. Exhausted, the hike seemed to stretch on for miles on end when in reality it took less than five minutes.

Once up the slope, he came to the fence that encircled Thorne’s limited land. Behind the wooden posts stood Thorne’s black mount, grazing sedately. It stood alone under a gnarled old oak tree and flicked its ears at bothersome flies with a snort. The stable boy must have been over to let it out after they left for the reading. For a moment, Arthur thought about stowing the net in the stable but decided against it. Thorne would find it when he prepared his mount, and shifting the blame onto the stable boy would do no good. Why would the boy keep a fishing net in the stabled? No, Thorne would know Arthur was lying, and then there would be hell to pay.

Arthur stepped onto the graveled lawn, intent on entering through the back door of the kitchen. There was no one around. Thorne dismissed Ariadne and his own footman before they left for the reading. According to him, there was no need to waste money on a servant’s pay when there was no one around for them to service.

In truth, they couldn’t afford a full-time live-in servant, and Thorne didn’t want them around to witness the depth of their quarrels. For anyone to see him as the tyrant he was. Under his rule, no servant was to stay in the household after dinner had been served. It never sat well with Arthur. He saw how strained Ariadne was to complete her duties on the whims of an unpredictable master. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that she wouldn’t see him so rattled. He needed time to think.

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.

Someone was standing out by the back of the house, identity hidden behind a veil of dull mist. Was it Thorne? No, it couldn’t be! He was back in London, most likely drowning away his sorrows and financial woes in some cheap tavern. Then James? Arthur discarded the idea before hope could get the better of him. The stable boy. _It had to be him_.

Arthur approached, peering through the mist to get a clear look at the figure’s face. Fear lodged his heart somewhere in the back of his throat, its rapid beat working against rising bile. He stepped forward. The mist thinned, and the figure was revealed.

It was the water pump.

 _Christ_.

Scoffing at himself and the sickening relief he felt, Arthur carried on. He was acting like a child, frightened of his own shadow. With more force than needed, he threw the clothes in his hand to the ground and dumped the net into an empty barrel beneath the kitchen window. They generally used it for compost or collecting rainwater, but Arthur had another use for it in mind.

He spat out the taste of bile and went to grab the lever of the water pump and heaved it. Water surged down into a waiting bucket, and Arthur bent to pick it up but hesitated when he saw his reflection. His features were dark and twisted on the clear surface. Empty. Unveiling that wretched thing -- so sentimental and weak -- dwelling inside of him. Unbidden, Thoyt’s voice crawled into his mind to whisper the bitter truth that had haunted him since the reading: ‘ _… there is no mention in the last will_.’

Arthur shook his head with a growl. Why couldn’t the old bastard stay in his grave? He had promised himself that he would never think of Horace Delaney again!

He picked up the bucket and upended it over his head.

“Guh!” he gasped when the icy water leached away what warmth he’d gained from his exercise. Blindly, Arthur set down the bucket and shook his head like a wet dog, rubbing his hands across his face to remove the dried sweat from his brow. His lips stung as the gash reopened. Thorne’s wedding band had caught on it when the flat of his palm struck against it. It throbbed now as blood welled up and left a blistering trail as it spilled down his chin. He’d forgotten about it, his skin so cold that he didn’t really feel anything beyond a numbing ache.

Thorne used to keep his punishment away from his face. Too pretty to break, he would say, but Arthur preferred his fists to his words. It was easier to heal a bruise than a broken spirit.

The clawing ache in his chest grew, and Arthur rubbed at it uselessly. Some sleep would cure it — _and so would James_ , but Arthur wasn’t thinking about him now — but he knew that rest would remain elusive. To think that he’d avoided it like the plague this past week, only for it to resist him now when he wanted it the most.

He sucked on his injured lip, licking away the dried blood, grimacing at the taste. Picking up his clothes, he stepped inside to warm up. He didn’t linger in the kitchen, too queasy to stomach the smell of food, and grabbed one of the tea towels to dry his hair with. The afternoon was closing in and the hall, which had no lamps alight, looked dark and gloomy as he made his way to the second landing. It made Arthur wish for nothing more than to lock himself away with a warm fire while he huddled in a nest of blankets until he was warm again. What he wouldn’t give for the key to his room.

As if in answer to his prayer, he froze as he was about to pass Thorne’s office. The door stood ajar. Perhaps, he could make his wish come true.

He wavered in indecision. Thorne wasn’t here. Arthur could get away with finding the key to his room. He didn’t want to wake up with Thorne looming over him, drunk and ready to make him pay for his insolence. ‘ _To get you help!_ ’ The parting threat tightened the noose around his neck. Arthur didn’t want to see that priest ever again. He would make sure of it.

Just this once.

He slipped inside, heart racing when the floorboards creaked underneath his light tread. This was unmistakably Thorne’s territory, his Beta scent saturated the air. It should have been mild and comforting to Arthur’s sensitive nose but did _nothing_ to calm his nerves. It clung to everything. Had Thorne been sleeping here? Arthur didn’t care to know. He didn’t dare open the window when he saw the row of drained bottles Thorne had stacked on the sill before it. He would need to act fast and touch as little as possible, lest his scent left a trail of evidence. Thorn’s tobacco clearly hadn’t completely ravaged his sense of smell. Arthur had the bruises to prove it.

There was nothing of real interest on Thorne’s desk. There were some old letters on his business in Germany strewn across it. _Reminiscing over past success most likely_ , Arthur thought spitefully to himself. Arthur almost stepped on a glass, knocked over and abandoned on the floor. The discarded crystal tumbler lay on its side, empty. Both smelled strongly of gin — the cheapest sort that burned Arthur’s nostrils and made his eyes water. Taking the tea towel from his shoulder, he covered his hand and pulled open the first drawer. Using the tip of Thorne’s letter knife to rifle through its content, Arthur saw nothing of real interest. It was a mess. Bits and pieces rolled around in a litter of useless notes, more tobacco, cheap and smelly, and a green flask of what he recognized as unfiltered absinthe.

The second drawer proved more fruitful. And more organized. Arthur stilled when he saw the body of a brass key poking out from beneath an open letter. When he moved it out of the way to get to the key, the official-looking seal on it gave him pause. Why on earth did Thorne possess a letter embossed with the royal coat of arms? Had they entered such debt that the courts had sent a writ to intervene? The seal was already broken, so Arthur didn’t hesitate to fish it out, forgetting all about his key. He was careful not to touch it and lay it down on the desk to read under the failing daylight.

It was a response to a job application. But Thorne hadn’t mentioned applying for a job. Surely he would want to boast, especially if it pertained King and Country!

“Ports and harbor assessor? Assize and administration over felons-” Arthur murmured to himself in growing disbelief, breath stuttering in his chest when he saw where the job was stationed, “- in Sidney Australia!”

 _No, no, no. It couldn’t be!_ They couldn’t possibly want a failed insurance broker for the job! Thorne hadn’t gotten the job yet, but they were in his favor. Arthur didn’t want to go to Australia — it was on the other side of the world!

He would never see James again if they left.

It was irrational. James could easily hunt him down to Australia if he wanted to, but doubt clouded Arthur’s mind. Would his brother go through so much trouble for him? Would he even want Arthur in the end? If James had been telling him the truth, then the answer would always be yes.

But after everything, Arthur had a hard time believing it.

He blinked against a suffocating wave of lightheadedness. The room was stifling, and Arthur lurched back, desperate to get out. He put the cursed letter back in its drawer, grabbed his key, and slammed it shut. He couldn’t breathe, Thorne’s scent choking him. He slammed the door shut behind him, the hallway growing longer with each step, and shoved his key into his lock once he was on the other side.

Barricaded inside, he tried to breathe but found that he couldn’t. Each inhale turned into a clawing gasp that did nothing to the vice around his lungs, but telling himself that he was safe here was useless as always. Arthur had never been safe inside this house. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision as the inability to draw breath forced every other sense away. Seized by the crushing truth that he was _alone_ , he would die alone, Arthur choked. Until-

 _Clary sage_.

Ariadne was here.

Or she had been not long ago. Arthur couldn’t see her, but still, her familiar scent brought him a split second of clarity. She’d left a fresh stack of logs sitting ready in his hearth and refreshed his ewer and basin. There was even a new book lying on his pillow, half-hidden by his blanket in case Thorne came prying. Her thoughtfulness brought a sting of tears to Arthur’s eyes, blurring his vision.

This would all end soon. Ariadne. His only friend. Thorne would never allow him to keep her with them. _To Australia_.

And then he would truly be alone.

He wasn’t breathing now. At all. Couldn’t get the air into his lungs. _Shit_. Arthur jerked into action, knowing yet hating what he was about to do, but he knew no better way. His body couldn’t fight against its own chemistry, and he was too weak to resist. Almost shaking too hard to get his small drawer open, he finally managed to wrestle out what he was looking for. A clear glass bottle of thick amber liquid.

 _Laudanum_.

The savior and bane of an Omegas existence.

Arthur didn’t know which he hated more, Thorne or the drug. Both left him numb to the world. Like many other Omegas, Arthur was unfortunately well acquainted with the drug, more so in recent years. Ever since he’d entered puberty, Arthur suffered from awful cramps when he bled, but they had worsened after he’d given birth to Robert-

-He couldn’t stop his tears at the broken reminder of him. Everything had gone to hell without his little boy. Again the ghost of Horace Delaney stole his mind. How could Arthur have been so stupid to think his father would be merciful? How could he have been so deluded? How-

Arthur gritted his teeth and took out the dropper, drawing out the foul liquid. Once, in his desperation to escape into oblivion before Thorne could find him in heat, he had made the near-fatal error of swallowing too much of it. It had poisoned him. A few more drops and he would have died. Sometimes when the hours grew dark, Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d been lucky or should regret that he hadn’t finished the job.

A terribly bitter and cloying floral taste covered his tongue, and he swallowed, struggling to keep from retching. The arresting flavor was enough to silence his tortured mind. His body still shook with stress, and he crossed his arms with a shuddery moan of displeasure when a tremor wracked through him. It hurt. Everything still hurt.

He needed to lie down.

The drug took over as Arthur sat down at the end of his bed. He lost all sense of equilibrium and almost keeled over backward, swaying sluggishly, before gravity took hold of him. It pulled him down onto his back. He lay there spread-eagle for a moment while he tried to grasp how he’d gotten there. Finally, he attempted to turn over onto his side, but his leaden legs remained dangling over the side of his bed. It took a herculean effort to drag them up onto the mattress, limbs weighing a ton and elongated. He tried to roll over, torso moving while the rest of his body stayed put. His head was so dense and heavy that Arthur was sure he’d left it behind on the mattress, his neck stuck to it like pulled taffy. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

Then, gradually, his limbs reacted, and he curled up in the middle of his bed with the blanket half over him. He drifted there, not yet unconscious but not awake either. His room darkened as the sun set beyond the horizon, taking all warmth with it. Arthur hadn’t lit his fire, but his deadened skin didn’t feel it when the chill locked its claws into him. His tongue prickled, numbness seeping into it and turned it thick and heavy inside his mouth. He could probably bite through it without feeling a thing. He couldn’t feel anything. The Reaper himself could take his dues, and Arthur wouldn’t even notice it.

Such ignorance was bliss.

 

* * *

 

 _Arthur_ …

He lost his sight to a sea of white when the air thickened until he was breathing mist.

… _Arthur_

Nothing could touch him now.

 

* * *

 

It was a black night when he woke. There was a storm brewing outside. Deep rumbling crashes of waves raining down on a stone shore broke the silence of his room. With it, the hoarse soughing of wind raked its claws against his window. It was such a distinct sound, pulling at something deep inside of him. It was a sound that Arthur hadn’t heard since he’d last slept in his childhood bed. In Chamber House.

It couldn’t be.

But it was. Dread slithered down his spine, squeezing his heart in a vice when he became aware that his eyes wouldn’t open. No amount of fear would open them, lids sealed tight. He was trapped in utter darkness. Panic was gaining a foothold in him when a soft murmur sounded beside him. It stole the air right out of his lungs.

 _Oh_. He knew that sound.

He knew where he was.

He was home.

 _Robert_.

He could hear his boy now. All other sounds fell away as he clung desperately to those wispy little breaths. Was he dreaming? He had to be. But if this was Arthur’s dream, then why couldn’t he move? If he rolled over and opened his eyes, he would see his face, pursed sweetly in sleep. Robert would be safe and sound in his cradle just as he had so long ago. He yearned — needed — to see his boy, but his limbs remained dormant, unresponsive to his distress. Robert slept sound not a foot away, well within reach. Yet Arthur lay there with a pin skewered through his chest like a prized insect. No matter how much he strained against the force holding him down, his mind and will remained fragmented from his body. Always the prisoner to his own body.

Robert sighed, gurgling a bit as he squirmed in sleep, and Arthur melted. So be it. If he couldn’t see him, then he would settle for merely hearing his little breaths for the rest of this dream. It was enough. The soothing rhythm of Robert’s breathing started to lull Arthur. So relaxed was he, that he missed the sound of a lock turning in the keyhole of his door.

“Sir, are you certain?” Brace’s rough voice struck him dumb. Arthur hadn’t heard the servant’s voice in over ten years. _No. No, let it be a dream_. Let him wake up now.

It couldn’t be.

It was his late father who then spoke, confirming his worst nightmare, “Yes. It must be done.”

Arthur wanted to scream. What sort of twisted torment was this? Was this his hell? Should he be forced to relive the greatest mistake of his life for the rest of eternity? He’d give anything at this moment to be free, but he was shackled to the bed by his useless body.

 _Move_!

“Will he wake?” His father’s voice, a smooth timber — lighter than James’s — and unaffected by age in this nightmare, was now right above him.

Arthur wanted to sink his teeth into his throat.

“No, I-I laced his evening tea with it, just as you asked. Should be enough to keep him down till mornin’ comes,” Brace admitted.

Arthur heard a rustle and his son’s small whimper as he roused when someone lifted him from his cradle. _No. Please!_

“Is it necessary? He’s always been a good lad-” Brace almost sounded regretful, but his father bitter scoff silenced him.

“Good? Only God can save him now.” The repugnance was thick in Horace Delaney’s voice, and Arthur couldn’t take it. He wanted to rage, to rip, to _tear_ \- just as he was prepared to get onto his knees in front of them and beg them to spare his boy. _How could his father do this?_ To his own family! But it was too late.

It was over before it even began. Brace didn’t protest any further, and their footsteps receded, taking Robert with them.

The sea roiled outside hungrily, and the turning of the lock tore apart what was left of Arthur’s heart.

He was left alone in the dark.

 

* * *

 

The sky was clear for once, pale light inching in and settling across his features. It did little to repel the cold that had seeped in during the night, but Arthur’s mind was too foggy to notice it. He couldn’t feel its touch. His chest was tight, yet he could still breathe. The constant ache had haunted him for as long as he could remember — long before James set foot in that church.

 _Robert_.

After they took him. Drowned him. Arthur should have walked into the sea after him. He shouldn’t be breathing. He’d done nothing to deserve it.

Time should have healed the hurt, but all it had done was scab over it and left the wound to fester. A year. That was all they had let Arthur keep him — not even that. Nine of those months, Robert had slept inside his womb. And Arthur had thought he would have a lifetime watching over him, to nurture his son and see him grow. He was a fool. Even now, hidden underneath a layer of spite and vitriol, the pathetic creature inside him was still so hurt, so shocked that it had come to this. Ten years and a part of him still couldn’t believe his father’s cruelness. The bastard was dead and buried.

Arthur shouldn’t feel this way anymore. But then there was James. Who had been dead for _ten years_. Arthur shivered, the cold finally settling in. He couldn’t muster the will to think of his wayward mate either, knowing it would only result in despair when he was in this state. But before his mind could begin to torment him again, there came a gentle knock on his door.

He didn’t react.

“Are you awake, sir? I have your breakfast ready.” It was Ariadne. She tried to turn the handle, but the lock didn’t give. “Sir?” she asked again, worry coloring her voice.

Arthur couldn’t muster the energy to speak, to tell her to leave him be, let alone to get out of bed. Her next knock was louder, not quite frantic but growing more distressed. She was right to worry. He wasn’t allowed to lock his door and if Thorne found out-

The thought of the repercussions was almost enough to stir him.

“Arthur? Please let me know if you are well,” she implored through his door.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t leave her to worry about his wellbeing while he stewed in his own misery and self-pity. He pushed himself upright, and his vision swam from a surge of dizziness.

Her next words compelled him to his feet.

“He’s not here.”

So, Thorne was still away. No doubt licking his wounds. Arthur shivered with relief and turned the lock with a weak hand. Ariadne was toeing the threshold, having set her tray down onto the floor, and raised her hand to knock again. Her dark brown hair was tied back in her usual neat braid, fringe attractively curled to frame her brow. She wore her blue work dress under a clean apron — the one Arthur had embroidered her name over a tear with a red thread. Another one of those _useful_ skills taught to Omegas.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed at the sight of him.

Arthur hadn’t thought to look in the mirror, but perhaps he ought to be grateful for it. If he looked half of what he felt, then he must look a complete wreck. He was still wearing the clothes she’d seen him leave in yesterday. He tried to speak, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Laudanum always left him parched, and it robbed him of the ability of speech for a moment. Having to peel his mouth open was revolting, but he managed. His voice croaked when he spoke, “Good morning, Ariadne.”

She wasn’t having it.

“Lie back down.” She herded him back towards his bed. The blanket was still half-tucked under the mattress, and the book she’d left him was still on his pillow. Arthur stayed silent as the furrow between her brows grew. She moved it out of the way without comment and beckoned to him imperiously.

For once, Arthur didn’t argue.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Of sorts.” He didn’t elaborate and lay down, reaction sluggish when she tugged his boots off, and let himself be tucked in like a small child. He’d given into the heaviness of his lids somewhere on the way, and he listened to the movement of Ariadne’s skirt as she went back to fetch his breakfast. She set the tray down on his bedside table, before walking across the room again. The start of a match broke the silence, and the smell of smoke told Arthur that she’d lit the fireplace.

“How much did you take?”

 _Ah_. Arthur knew without looking that she’d found the laudanum. She didn’t sound angered by it, which caused Arthur even more shame. Instead, she seemed saddened and far more sympathetic than he deserved.

“Enough,” he sighed and sank deeper into the mattress, trying to hide under his blanket. He didn’t open his eyes when it dipped by he side as Ariadne sat down, but jerked away when he felt the press of a damp cloth against his sore bottom lip. Right. Thorne’s parting gift.

“Let me see,” she demanded and took hold of his chin with such gentle hands to get a closer look. He couldn’t stand to see the worry in her eye and took the handkerchief from her but held it obediently to his lip.

“It’s nothing.” It was true. He wasn’t bleeding any more. The crusted blood made his chin itch now that he was aware of it.

Her scowl told him what she thought of that.

“Did he do this to you?” she demanded.

Arthur didn’t need to ask who ‘ _he_ ’ was and shut his eyes again. “The proceedings weren’t to his liking.” He shouldn’t say it with such nonchalance, but this was hardly the first time Thorne had lashed out at him in a fury.

“ _Humph!_ ” The mattress lifted when Ariadne got to her feet and Arthur’s lips quirked behind the handkerchief when he heard her mutter under her breath, “-wait until I get my hands on that brute!”

He would miss her. _In Australia_. Arthur let out a sharp breath and silenced the thought. He couldn’t go down that road again. Not in front of her. Ariadne was here with him now, and that was enough for now. There was still time to fix this.

His eyes flew open when she snatched the handkerchief from him, and his nose wrinkled when an overpowering smell assaulted his nostrils. His healing rub. It was his own creation, but Arthur absolutely despised the smell of it. He had created it from the base oil of an exotic plant, a curious green substance, and the antiseptic resin of myrrh, which he’d then mixed with a few drops of lavender and rosemary oil. Together it packed quite the punch. The earthy scent with a sharp, acidic note never failed to make Arthur’s eyes stream. Which is why he kept it in a tightly sealed jar and out of sight. It only reminded him of pain and misery.

But it did a damn good job at healing any cut or bruise, and Ariadne knew it. It was childish, but Arthur still felt like sneering at it, knowing that she was about to lather his face in the vile thing. He brightened when he saw the glass of water in her other hand.

She narrowed her eyes at him, having dealt with his aversion many times before and was not above bribery. “Choose.”

Arthur didn’t have to think twice: he chose the water. His lip stung when it met glass, but the first drop against his tongue inflamed his thirst and turned it unbearable. He downed the entire glass in seconds, but it wasn’t enough. Ariadne softened and abandoned the salve in favor of fetching the pitcher to refill his glass. He drank more slowly, losing the drive to keep his head up when his desperate thirst was quenched. It was tempting to keep drinking when he saw that the salve was back in Ariadne’s hands, but knew he would make himself sick if he drank any more.

She sat down next to him again, but Arthur’s stomach growled before she could smear it on him. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and that had only been a slice of bread with some jam and a cup of coffee — hardly a substantial meal. The laudanum subdued his hunger, but the water revived it with a vengeance.

He was ravenous.

Ariadne heard his stomach and heeded its call, knowing he wouldn’t eat with the salve on his face. Arthur counted the upward tick of her lips a small success as she set the jar down with a sigh. She balanced the tray on her lap to show him the bounty she’d brought him. It was the usual; a bowl of boiled eggs, a slice of honey cake, and a side of bacon. Ariadne lifted the cloche keeping the small platter of bacon warm, and the thick, savory smell made Arthur’s stomach turn. His face paled. Ariadne quickly set the lid back down, her smile dimming, and handed him one of the shelled eggs instead.

He stared at it blankly, still feeling queasy, but looked up when Ariadne placed the tray back onto the bedside table. She sat with her knees folded underneath her, hands balled in her lap in a white-knuckled grip.

“I am a very good listener,” Ariadne informed him solicitously. A blush bloomed on her cheeks, well aware of her audacity, but it didn’t stop her, which Arthur could appreciate despite his growing unease. “If you need an ear?” she trailed off in her offer.

Arthur believed her, knowing that she was one of two people who truly cared about his wellbeing. Someday he would take her up on her offer. But not today.

“No,” he said, and tried to ease his rebuff with a laugh, but it fell flat, “I must have seemed out of sorts these past weeks.”

“Well, I think having a brother return from the grave is as much an occasion as any to be ‘out of sorts’,” she mused.

“Hmm,” Arthur huffed dryly, this time with real amusement. She could say that again. He’d _felt_ James die, and to have him return without any shame-

“Did you miss him?” The honest question caught him off guard, smothering his ire before it could take hold. Despite it, he didn’t have to think.

“Yes,” he whispered, truth strangling him. Good grief, was he tearing up? Because someone had asked him how he felt! It was disgraceful, yet here he was, blinking back tears.

Ariadne reached over and clasped his hand warmly. She looked at him, eyes roving over his face, and Arthur returned her scrutiny. There was a dullness to her features. The dark circles resting beneath her eyes emphasized the paleness of her skin, making her appear almost sickly. Her gaze was still as sharp as ever.

“The gun is back in its place,” she informed him. Her stone-faced determination gave nothing away.

Arthur blinked. _His gun?_ Lord almighty, he’d forgotten about it! It had been inside his old coat’s pocket when he gave it to Ariadne! To think, he could have shot Thorne in that hallway and avoided all the grief in this past week. And then he would have been charged for manslaughter and hung the next day.

Still, Ariadne had cracked the code to his trunk after one passive viewing and returned it to him. Arthur stared at her in astonishment. “You truly are a marvel, Ariadne.”

“Yes, I am. Now, eat the eggs I made you, sir,” she commanded in a light voice. The little tyrant.

“Yes, mother,” Arthur said in a droll tone, fighting a grin, but took it from her. It was still warm from the pot, and he ate it in slow bites.

The drowsiness was returning, and Ariadne was hovering. Arthur needed to rest. He stuffed the rest of it into his mouth and tried to disappear into his warm cocoon. His lip stung from chewing. Arthur could feel it now. The wound hadn’t reopened, but it sat lower than he’d thought. Thorne’s ring had caught on the edge where the sensitive skin of his lower lip met his chin and tore a downward gash. Arthur was relieved. It was easier to heal a wound that didn’t split open every time he moved his mouth.

Ariadne pushed down the blanket from his face with a raised brow, eyes twinkling with mirth. Arthur was absolutely not pouting at her. He was simply tired.

Her brow hiked up even further.

She’d learned that from him, hadn’t she? Arthur swore she hadn’t been this impudent when he’d hired her. And she’d definitely never raised her brow at him like that. Though, he had to commend the level of condescension she managed to express in such a small thing. It was quite impressive. He only had himself to blame really. When they first met, she’d been a scrawny but sweet-tempered girl of sixteen with deceptively doe-like eyes. Thorne had approved of her mild countenance, but Arthur hadn’t hired her for her docile appearance. He had seen the fire in her eyes.

She spread the ointment onto his injury, its cooling effect was instant, soothing away the tenderness. The medicinal smell made both their eyes water and Arthur turned his face away with a small grunt. Just moving his head took more effort than it should but squirming like an unruly child was worth the relief that blossomed in Ariadne. Arthur’s body may be beaten, but Thorne hadn’t subdued his spirits yet.

“You are a grown man,” she huffed, and Arthur settled down. She put some on his cheekbone as well, on his older bruise, and then some by his jaw. The skin there ached under her gentle touch. A new bruise, this one still fresh from yesterday. The glimmer in Ariadne’s eyes dimmed at his hiss of discomfort. Arthur missed it at once.

“Does that mean you won’t read me a bedtime story?” he teased, desperate to put her at ease.

Ariadne didn’t answer but must have deemed him thoroughly coated because she put the jar away and cleaned her hands. Her own eyes were bloodshot and watering from the salve’s sharp smell. She grabbed the book she’d brought him and toed off her shoes and pulled up his blanket. “Scoot over. It’s freezing in here.”

Arthur didn’t mind her boldness and lolled his head lazily to the side as he made room for her. They didn’t do it often, share a bed like this, but sometimes when Arthur was too tired to get out of bed, Ariadne would keep him company and rest beside him. He imagined that this was what it must be like to have a little sister. It felt safe. Thorne wasn’t here to belittle them, and Arthur didn’t hunger for her like he did James, his own flesh and blood.

Ariadne didn’t notice his inattention, making herself comfortable beside him. She sat with her back against Arthur’s headboard and pulled his blanket over her lap. The book she held look like it was one good breeze from crumbling to pieces. The ravaged cover didn’t have a title, and the spine appeared split apart down the middle, the whole thing held together by a string. Ariadne unraveled the knot and pulled the string free so she could open it, stroking the first page in awe.

“It took me ages to get my hands on it — and it’s only the first of three, mind you — but Mr. Bell came ‘round and told me when he was due another shipment from the print,” she admitted.

Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from snorting.

“How thoughtful of him,” he hummed. Always so reliable, Mr. Bell. Especially when it came to a certain Ms. Ariadne. The bookkeeper, though he’d only been his father’s assistant at the time, had carried a torch for her ever since Ariadne first accompanied Arthur on a visit to his store. At the time, she had still been illiterate. When he found out, Arthur had taught her to read and write under the guise of having her read Bible verses for him. Thorne had a nasty habit of lurking behind doors, waiting to catch them conspiring. She proved to be a voracious reader, and soon, Arthur’s restricted reading materials about the house wasn’t enough for her. Now, whenever Mr. Bell received a flawed copy, he would call on Ariadne and let her have it for free. Perhaps, if Arthur had been less selfish, he would have done more to encourage their acquaintance, but he knew Mr. Bell wasn’t the right fit for Ariadne. Much too meek. She needed a match to her stubbornness or else she would bowl them over in her good intentions.

Ariadne misinterpreted his smirk and thought he was put off by her choice of book. She pursed her lips at him and hugged her book protectively to her chest. “I know you enjoyed the Lady’s first novel. Don’t deny it, sir!”

“I wasn’t about to.” And he wasn’t. He had nothing against the Lady’s first novel, which Ariadne was still in rapture over. His easy answer mollified her, and she settled down to reading.

Like under a spell, his eyelids grew heavy, and it was pitiful how fast he succumbed to sleep once more. He couldn’t resist. With his head resting on a soft pillow and curled up under a warm blanket, Arthur drifted away to Ariadne’s lilting voice, “ _It was a truth universally acknowledged…_ ”

He slept. And when he woke, hours later, he felt calmer than he had in ages. He was alone in bed, Ariadne having moved away to sit by the fire. She was reading silently to herself, almost finished with her volume. His stomach growled, reminding him of the breakfast he had yet to eat, and Arthur rose to sit by his window. The bacon was stone cold by now but edible, now that its scent had eased. Ariadne let him be while he ate, the turning of a page the only thing breaking their silence. He must have slept the day away because the sun was dwindling, the sky already dark with dusk.

It was peaceful.

But it couldn’t last.

Ariadne pulled him from his reverie.

“You have a letter. It arrived while you slept.” She gestured to a letter he hadn’t noticed sitting on his escritoire.

It was folded small and surprisingly heavy when Arthur picked it up. It was addressed to him simply by name. His old name. _Arthur Delaney_. There was no return address, but Arthur knew exactly who had sent this. What was his brother scheming now? His heart gave a painful squeeze and his finger, the one he’d dragged across James’s back — had it only been yesterday? — prickled as he broke the plain seal. The faint trace of James’s musk tickled his nose, and he brought the envelope up to savor it like a man starved. _Christ_. A single whiff and Arthur lost all sense to his yearning.

Before Ariadne caught him sniffing his post like a lunatic, Arthur opened his letter. Disappointment crushed him when blank parchment met him. There wasn’t even a word of greeting. He turned it over in agitation, and the object hidden within the parchment’s fold drop into his hand.

He froze.

In his palm sat a diamond. A rough diamond. Never in Arthur’s life had he held anything of such value. Where the fuck had James obtained such a thing, and why was he giving it to Arthur? Africa had served him well, indeed.

Arthur’s hands trembled. He clenched his fist, feeling the raw edges of the jewel bite into his palm, and brought it to his lips.

It felt like a promise.

He gazed out the window with unseeing eyes. Somewhere beyond the glass was James, Arthur could feel him now like he was there beside him. The pull was stronger than ever, and the force of Arthur’s longing choked him. Something inside his chest clenched, and it took him a moment to comprehend what it was. Anticipation. He was excited. A wild grin spread across his lips. God, he had missed James.

 _Soon_.

Arthur caught himself before he could slip any further, well aware of Ariadne’s keen eyes and insatiable curiosity. He kept his back to her as he quietly slid the diamond into the nearest drawer, sealing it away. If she saw James’s gift, there would doubtlessly be questions. Questions Arthur had no idea how to answer yet.

Crumpling the envelope, he turned. Ariadne’s eyes darted down too late to avoid detection but pretended that she hadn’t just been staring. Arthur huffed a small laugh and joined her by the fire, feeding the parchment to the dying flame before her curious gaze. He dropped down into the armchair beside her, loose-limbed and content. Neither spoke as the fire ate the envelope until only ash remained.

She finally gave up any pretension of reading and observed him. Arthur knew that look. Ariadne was a fixer at heart and couldn’t compose herself for long. He raised his brow at her, teasing just as she had done to him this morning, but knew that he couldn’t indulge her curiosity this time, no matter how kind-hearted her intentions were.

Ariadne snapped her book shut and turned to him, but paused when Arthur’s face closed off.

“I think a bath will do you good, you are far too stiff, sir,” she announced, jumping up with a smile too bright to be entirely true, and tilted her head at him. Arthur stayed still as she plucked at a stray curl on his head and gave an unladylike snort when it stood on end. “Shall I get my shears, sir? I fear you are one step away from joining the French aristocracy.”

Arthur laughed and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

.

It hurt to dismiss her that night. But Thorne would return. Arthur couldn’t allow her to become complicit to his crimes, so he gave her a week of paid leave.

She would not hang next to him.

  
.

Arthur locked his door.

It was late, and Thorne hadn’t returned. _Yet_. He would return, and then there would be hell to pay. Arthur could hardly wait.

He sprawled down on his bed, hair damp and fashionable thanks to Ariadne’s skilled hand. He gazed up at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast from the fireplace dance. Perhaps he would read Ariadne’s book. If only to ease his mind. She’d returned the first half of her broken volume to his bedside table. The other half she left with, informing him that she would be holding it hostage until he got his head out of his arse. Granted, those hadn’t been her exact words, but Arthur got the gist of it. She wanted to help him in any way she could, he need only ask.

But Arthur would never ask that of her.

He turned over, away from the book, and tucked himself underneath his blanket. He would hear from Ariadne soon, having promised to write her a letter every day. Or else, knowing her, she would come knocking down his door if he didn’t. Still, he would miss her. The melancholia was crawling towards him again, eager to dig its claws back into him now that he was alone. But Arthur could resist. He would see her again.

He rolled onto his back with a sigh, hating this part. The part where he trapped himself with Thorne in a twisted game of waiting. The stress never eased. It grabbed hold of his chest and _squeezed_ until he couldn’t breathe. It was always like this.

Throughout the years, their fighting had evolved into a battle of push and pull. Arthur would stoke the fire, purposefully poking and prodding at every chance, _misbehave_ , until Thorne reacted. That part never took long. Thorne’s fuse was short and his anger always explosive, tearing them apart. It only added to Arthur’s hate and resentment. Justifying it. Then the heat of his rage ebbed, and Thorne’s chilling machinations returned.

Thorne had discovered early on in their marriage that if left alone for long enough, the suspense would twist Arthur’s mind until it turned on itself. Paranoia would grip him. He would begin to distrust his own shadow until he couldn’t take the suspense. Arthur became his own worst enemy when he sought Thorne out to start the whole cycle over. No matter how Thorne would hurt him, it became an addiction to Arthur. To have something to fight against.

So, when Thorne was in a particularly cruel mood, he would leave. Sometimes for days, knowing that when left alone, Arthur would do the work for him. Those first years with only Thorne for company had been hell on earth. Arthur would have lost if Thorne hadn’t made a mistake. He had provided Arthur with a companion.

Ariadne. A servant who became his friend, his sister, his salvation. Taking her under his wing had given Arthur a purpose to live again.

This would be the last time Arthur played Thorne’s game.

He would make sure of it.

Arthur closed his eyes. His door was locked. He was as safe as he would ever be in this house. The tension in his muscles melted away as he breathed. In and out. In and out. Arthur breathed. Outside, the wind rustled through leaves, and if he strained his ears, he could hear the flow of the river through the light pitter-patter of rain that washed against his window. It blanketed him in peaceful solitude. The heat from Arthur’s fire seemed to turn everything softer, lulling him to a shallow dose.

Then, when Arthur was in sleep’s grasp, the heat grew and thickened the air until his breath misted past his lips. The flames spat embers as an unnatural current swept the heady smoke towards him like an apparition. It begged him to let it inside, like the devil himself was beckoning to him beyond his door. Soft grass grew from the mattress beneath him in a wave of vertigo that left him reeling, cocooned in a warm nest on the forest floor. Arthur gasped in his sleep, his mouth slackening as that heady musk filled him, the scent of _James_ sliding thick as honey on his tongue and down his throat.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

Earthy notes of dew and _James_ tickled his nose, the air caressing him like a warm breath. It fanned across his skin, smoothing over him as the temperature rose to a sweltering fever, igniting that unnatural heat within his bones. It was so soothing that Arthur melted into the ground with a sigh, shivering when a throb of arousal ran through him.

The air nudged him and Arthur let his knees fall open, exposing himself to the forest. It felt so good to give in and splay himself open like this. The air brushed against him again eagerly, growing phantom hands. They caressed him, gripping and gliding over his flesh possessively. Arthur moaned at the intoxicating heat, arching as they slid up between his thighs and pushed to splay him. The thrum of his arousal was impossible to ignore, and he clenched down on instinct. He felt slick slide between his softened folds and clenched down again, moaning in content. Arthur wanted nothing more than to reach down and dip his fingers into the heat like he had that night when James first broke in.

The phantom hands came alive, air turning into skin, flesh against flesh.

Arthur wasn’t prepared for the hot breath that panted against his skin, mouthing up the inside of his thighs to settled between them. It felt so real. It was real. Arthur’s back arched tightly in surprise with a cry as a mouth settled over his mound. The wet heat felt exquisite against his tender slit, and his chest heaved with a moan. _James_. A tongue slid over him, unfurling him, and slipping between his folds with impatient intent, making him gasp in disbelief as his body reacted instinctively to James’s touch.

Arthur sought out to him, moaning his name, but his brother only gripped his thighs tighter, giving no answer. Could it be-

The masked man.

 _No_. It had to be James. Arthur slid his eyes open, desperate to see his Alpha, but the white sky above him blinded him. He flinched, the ache inside him spiking at every fevered stroke of James’s tongue. It felt too real. Too fast. He was burning alive and Arthur had to see him.

Feeling more awake, he forced his eyes open, delirious to see James, and moaned in confusion. He was inside his room. _Alone_. What was happening to him? No, not alone. His blanket was pulled to the foot of his bed, and he lay naked and spread on his back like a sacrifice to the gods of old. Desperate to see, the muscles in Arthur’s abdomen quivered as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. The mouth stayed on him, feeling impossibly good.

Bleary-eyed, Arthur swore he could see his flesh move under the apparition’s touch. Heat rushed through his body in waves. His prick lay erect and untouched against his belly, twitching and drooling at every stroke of James’s tongue. Arthur wasn’t ready for the razor-edged pulse of pleasure that rippled through his core. Surprise gutted him, drawing a reedy cry from him. James had found the sensitive little nub in his folds, honing in on where it hid under its hood. It sent lightning flashes of heat to the tip of Arthur’s prick, and deep down into his core. James sealed his mouth over it, sucking and kissing it precisely how Arthur craved.

It was pure ecstasy.

Arthur threw himself back down onto the forest floor, back bowing against the ground to press his pelvis into the air, desperate for more. He wanted more. After having gone so long without his mate’s touch, his body reacted beyond his control. An animalistic, heat-like haze settled over his mind. The intoxicating smell of his own slick was thick in the air, and it made Arthur shudder with want. He was ripe for breeding, they could both smell it on him, and Arthur wanted his mate to mount him. He wanted to be _bred_. His insides started to tighten and throb, thighs twitching in a telltale sign that he was about to reach his crest. Violently.

James was near-feral now, finally making a noise as he let out deep guttural groans against Arthur’s folds. The wet sound his slick made as James feasted on him was obscene in the complete silence of the forest. It turned Arthur deaf to anything else, and he missed when the handle to his door turned.

Oblivious, Arthur pulled in deep, full-bodied breaths as he bucked against James’s mouth, desperate for his end-

“Arthur?”

Thorne was home.

Arthur slapped a hand over his mouth to silence his startled gasp. He was inside his room, and Thorne was listening on the other side of his door.

James hadn’t stopped, and Arthur desperately tried to keep from making any more sounds, torn between his pleasure and growing fear. Fear won when Thorne wrung the handle and shoved at his door when it refused to give. Distress ruined any appetite to quench his lust. Arthur lurched away, feet sliding frictionlessly on his sheets, panting and trying to back away from James. His brother held on tight, still driving Arthur mad with every suck and press of his tongue.

Arthur’s arousal got the better of him, still throbbing and dripping with slick for James. A choked sob broke from Arthur, pelvis jerking instinctively against James’s mouth because he was so close. _So close_. Losing all inhibition, Arthur grabbed James by the back of his head and crushed him to his clit, rutting against his mouth and jaw. He choked back his whines as his Alpha let him use his mouth, his beard chafing his folds. It felt so delicious, knowing only he had the right to rut against James so, to mark him with his slick so. James was _his_. A muffled moan escaped him, insides tight and reaching. Almost there-

“Arthur?” Thorne’s fist rapped against his door with growing impatience.

 _Shit. shit. shit._ No. The moment was ruined. Thorne was banging on his door and if he broke in, he would steal this from Arthur and brutalize it. Brutalize him.

Trembling, Arthur rushed to push James away and expected his hand to meet empty air. His palm came into contact with cracked and powdered skin, and his eyes flew open in surprise. In a flash, he found himself laying on the forest floor again. Moss and undergrowth cushioned his back. The back of his legs rested on a bare back, his thighs spread wide to accommodate James’s broad frame.

 _James_.

Something was off about him. His back was much too cold and pale. Forgetting all else in his worry, Arthur tangled his fingers into short hair to push James away so he could see his face. He froze. James looked back with milky eyes. The same demon eyes his mother had right before she had kissed Arthur and drowned him.

Arthur whined in confusion, still reeling and felt his hold weaken. White powder stained James’s face and hair, making his skin appear cracked. Arthur would have thought him dead if he wasn’t straining against his hold. The powder had smeared around his mouth to reveal his skin, pale but healthy, and his beard glistened with Arthur’s slick. Very much alive, James licked his lips, his nostrils flared, shameless and hungering for more. He pushed against Arthur’s grip, desperate to return to his place between his thighs. Arthur was about to let him, still hungering for his touch no matter his form.

_Bang!_

Arthur jerked back to the present as Thorne thumped his fists against his door again, the action t thunderous but erratic, growing weaker with every blow. Arthur stayed still. He wished with all his might that Thorne would go away. He wanted to be alone!

James snarled as he lost his hold on Arthur, trying to pull him under again as he fought a losing battle. He faded away into nothingness before Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur wanted to cry, feeling partly to blame for it after having wished so fervently to be alone. Losing James so suddenly, _again_ , tore his heart out and left him exposed to the miserable reality of Thorne.

“Arthur. Love, open this door,” his husband begged loudly through the door when he received no response from him. “Don’t keep a locked door between us. Not when I love you.”

Arthur bit his lips hard enough to bleed to keep from responding. He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the notion. _Love?_ What did Thorne know about love?

There was a weak thud when Thorne let his head fall against the wood. “Please, darling. Open the door. I can’t bear this!” he cried, almost too slurred to be coherent and already losing his steam.

Arthur didn’t care to hear him. He waited in silent fury until Thorne retreated with his tail between his legs as he always did.

Then, he was alone again.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s skin felt too tight for his body. He’d woken up in a foul mood that morning. Having been so close to fulfillment, so close to having James, had left him with an itch he couldn’t scratch. He yearned for release, his body still aching for it, but sheer aggravation kept him from touching himself. Knowing him, Thorne would somehow scent his sins through the door like a bloodhound.

Arthur shouldn’t think of Thorne now, or he would find the miserable cur and strangle him where he doubtlessly lay in a brandy-induced stupor. But Arthur couldn’t. It wouldn’t do to act so impulsively no matter how murderous he was. Not when he had put so much thought and effort into how he would gain his freedom. But there was no doubt, Arthur would have his revenge _very soon_.

It was still early when hunger drove Arthur from his room. He had the house to himself. Thorne no longer followed the militia’s creed of waking before dawn, preferring to drink late into the night and rising when the sun hung well above noon. Meaning, Arthur could look forward to a much desired and solitary morning with a nice cup of tea.

Or so he thought.

Thorne’s footman was sitting in the kitchen. He sprang up from the chair at Arthur’s entrance, having been slumped in idle thought. “Mornin’, sir,” he greeted with a hasty bow. There was a rag for buffing tarnish in his hands. He must have been cleaning the silver.

Feeling exposed, Arthur grabbed the neckline of his robe and drew it tighter around himself in disconcertion. Selwyn was the servant’s name. He was a Beta, no more than five-in-twenty, and appeared more put together than Arthur in his double-breasted coat and waistcoat livery, with dark hair and dark eyes. Arthur had hardly ever spoken to him, not even to give him an order, and the practiced veneer of mistress settled over him to hide his disorientation. He clasped his hands in a genteel-manner and gave the servant a curt nod, “As you were.”

Selwyn hesitated. He’d been lounging in the most unbefitting manner of a footman but heeded Arthur’s order. He sat as stiff as a board and cleared his throat, “Ms. Ariadne has yet to come. I didn’t think it right to cook breakfast. Can’t do it to save me own life, so I cleaned and sharpened your knives.”

Arthur nodded, even though he couldn’t care less. Having another person inside the house — a _witness_ — put a damper on things. He would need to fix this and quick before Thorne could wake. He hadn’t missed the slight at Ariadne’s performance either. “She won’t be in today.”

Selwyn’s ears reddened at the subtle reprimand, and he stood. “Shall I wake the master?”

“No.” The word was out before Selwyn had time to finish his sentence. Too harsh. Too suspicious. Arthur eased the severity in his voice, “No, let him sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” Selwyn bowed again.

Arthur wanted peace to think and quickly sought an excuse to keep the servant from hovering. “Restock the firewood inside the house, but do not wake Thorne,” he ordered, and Selwyn latched onto it, eager to regain favor.

 _What to do, what to do_. Arthur sighed and made himself a small breakfast of porridge. The answer was simple. When Selwyn returned, Arthur was ready. In his hand was a letter of recommendation and a month’s worth of pay. Thorne would have to forgive him for taking the liberty of his savings.

Selwyn didn’t appear surprised.

“It was only a matter of time,” Arthur said, allowing more weariness than he felt to seep into his voice. He saw how the man had eyed the blooming shiner on his face. Let Selwyn think him the tired and beaten husband of a violent drunkard.

Selwyn took the letter with a stiff bow, lips tight in understandable displeasure. He was losing his job, after all. To Arthur’s dismay, he didn’t leave at once but gave him a tense look of appraisal.

“Good luck,” he said, nonsensically, and left.

Arthur watched him go. Had he meant ‘good luck’ with surviving his drunkard, or ‘good luck’ in ridding them all of him? Either way, Arthur didn’t need luck. It never did him any good in the end. Not when he was alone with Thorne once more.

Luckily, his husband didn’t emerge all day. It was only when evening approached that he slithered out of his hole. Arthur hadn’t heard him, humming a soft tune to keep his mind occupied while he prepared their dinner. The beef needed to be eaten before it spoiled, so he settled on a simple roast.

“What are you up to?” Thorne said sharply from behind him.

Arthur flinched, caught off guard despite himself. It was far too easy to fall into his role. He dropped the slab of meat onto the counter and leaned forward onto his palms with a frustrated sigh. “Can I not cook us dinner without your suspicions and accusations?” he asked, voice brittle, and allowed his shoulders to drop forward, neck tilting in a rare show of weakness.

Thorne didn’t answer, and Arthur resisted the urge to peek at him. It was disconcerting, being in the same room as him without exactly knowing where he stood. Had Arthur been too hasty, giving in so soon. Usually, he ignored Thorne or snapped back. Had he-

Thorne finally reacted. His voice was soft as he approached, almost a croon, “Of course. Come now all is forgotten, all is forgotten.” He seized the chance and snared an arm around Arthur in the act of comfort, holding him tight to his chest. Arthur knew better. Thorne wasn’t offering him solace. It was a move designed to show him who held all the power. It took everything Arthur had to stay limp and supple to Thorne’s manipulation. To show him that, yes, he was finally getting to him.

Thorne stroked the side of his face, the injured one. He didn’t stop despite Arthur’s flinch and small noise of pain. Instead, he turned Arthur so he could look into his eyes. Thorne’s expression wasn’t as victorious as Arthur had predicted. There were deep bags beneath his eyes and a darkness in his gaze as he took in his work on Arthur’s face. Perhaps Thorne did feel some remorse for hurting him. Not enough to stop him from pressing their foreheads together. He breathed in Arthur’s scent and pressed a delicate kiss to his bruised cheek. “How ridiculous this has all become. You and I, fighting like children,” he announced like it was unthinkable.

Arthur fought a laugh. As if this were a new development! Arthur had always fought him.

Thorne’s pupils were blown wide now, and he put his nose into Arthur’s hair, pressing fervid kisses to his curls. Arthur closed his eyes, willing himself not to react. Thorne took it as permission, triumphing as he pulled him closer, hands resting on his hips. Each kiss felt like the bite of a thistle against Arthur’s skin.

“Please don’t lock me away again. I love you, Arthur. I only want what’s best for you,” he whispered against his brow, hands moving to stroke up his sides, touch turning sensual, groping and massaging him.

Arthur was sickened by it, and it took everything he had to breathe evenly as Thorne’s lips traced their way down to his unmoving lips. He’d been drinking recently, Arthur could taste it. He couldn’t handle it anymore. Arthur pulled away, lips numb and sour with the taste of Thorne’s brandy. He acted oblivious to the lust in Thorne’s touch and rested his head against his chest, giving a small nod before breaking away to turn back to his cooking.

“Dinner will be early,” he announced softly, too shaken to find his voice.

Thorne hesitated, having desired to touch him more, but he knew better than to push. He would get what he wanted in the end. So without another word, he left Arthur to his solitude.

.

Arthur was rather proud of himself. He hadn’t cooked a real meal in years. The savory scent of roasted meat and buttered rosemary wafted through the air, and it gave him a taste of what he’d lost. Control. The simple act of cooking and eating what he wanted, not what Thorne gave him, granted him more authority than he had in years. It was exhilarating. Arthur held onto the feeling, knowing he would need it. Just as he would need the bitter rage rotting him from the inside out at having to share the fruits of his labor with someone so undeserving. It should be _his_ family sharing this meal with him. James and Ariadne. And Robert. Robert, grown into a healthy boy of ten, smiling and looking so much like James had at that age-

The image vanished, nothing more than a fantasy.

Having carried out the feast by himself and laid the table for two, Arthur hesitated, staring down at the roast with unseeing eyes, mind mercurial. Had it truly come to this? _Yes_. If not now, when? It felt too cowardly to do it while Thorne slept. Arthur wanted to be in power for once, to _see_ the life drain from his eyes.

With steely resolve, Arthur rang the bell to signal dinner time, not about to venture into the house to find Thorne himself. He brushed down the front of his shirt as he waited, tugging distractedly at the cotton when it refused to sit right on his body.

Thorne emerged sooner than he’d anticipated, causing Arthur to jump. He tried to disguise his unease from Thorne by moving to wait at his seat but froze when Thorne came for him after having surveyed their meal with a scowl.

There was no wine on the table.

Arthur held his breath, but Thorne passed him to help himself to a glass of his brandy by the window. Thorne’s hair was damp, and he smelled of hay and muck from the stable, but he was clad in a waistcoat and suit. He sat down without acknowledging Arthur. Arthur, not having expected any sudden gesture of gallantry from Thorne, moved his chair on his own, but had hardly sat down when his husband spoke.

“Where is Selwyn?” Thorne asked, ill-humored at having to service himself in his own home.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I sent him away this morning.”

“Why?” Thorne’s voice was hard. Arthur did not give his servant orders, they both knew this. Only Thorne, the master of the house, could do that.

“I saw no reason to keep him around when there was little for him to do,” Arthur placated.

Thorne sneered, gripping his brandy tightly. “And what about your little maid?”

Thinking of a lie, Arthur let out a small frown. “Ariadne has gone to care for a sickly relative. She will be back in a week’s time.”

“Pity.” Thorne didn’t appear saddened by it, only irked that she would be returning at all. He took a drink. “Well, as marvelous as this is, I won’t have you doing servants work.”

Despite this, he made no offer to help Arthur serve them.

“Of course. It is only temporary.” Arthur nodded, not bothering with a smile.

They ate in silence, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for them. Thorne seemed pleased by the turn of events, cutting into his meat with much gusto. Arthur hardly ate a bite, mouth dry, and stomach sour at the thought of sharing another meal with him. Still, he placed one last slice of meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before putting down his fork, patience finally at an end.

It was now or never.

“Where is that priest of yours?” he asked with deceptive mildness. After all, Thorne had threatened him with another exorcism only a day ago.

Thorne halted mid-bite and lowered his fork to regard Arthur with irritation. “He had business in the country, but I’ve sent him a letter. Perhaps I acted too hastily, it seems that you have seen the light.” He gestured to the layout on the table between them.

Arthur disguised the trembling of his hand by smoothing down the napkin on his lap. Thorne had gone so far as sending the priest a letter. He fully intended to subject Arthur to such horrors again. Hatred seared through him, burning so bright that he breathed smoke. It didn’t matter. Arthur had no intention of staying after this meal. With that in mind, he spoke, tossing Thorne’s words back at him without care, “Oh, no. I’m quite content in the dark.”

Thorne stared, speechless, as Arthur let out a gusty sigh before continuing, “It is a shame your priest couldn’t be here to join us tonight. I slaved away the entire day to bring together a meal fit for a holy man. I knew you to be a coward, but even this is excessively low of you.” His voice never strayed from the smooth delivery, delighting in seeing Thorne pale as his words dug deep. Arthur’s eyes hardened to callus stone. “How you can even stand to look at yourself in the mirror is truly a marvel. Here you are, waiting for a priest to do your dirty work because you can’t control your _Omega_ wife. I am ashamed to be married to you.”

Thorne’s mouth had fallen open during his speech, and he glared at Arthur in dumbstruck fury at his gall.

Arthur wanted to laugh but knew that if he did, he would not stop until Thorne got his hands around his throat again. Instead, he pinned Thorne with a demure smile, mocking his husband with that submissive nature he so desired from him, all the while relishing the rush of vindication. “I must confess that I am-” he continued, searching for the right word, “- _relieved_ that James has returned to us. It makes me quite happy that my father’s inheritance fell into the hands of ‘that savage from Africa’ rather than your incapable hands.”

He’d struck a nerve.

“Silence!” Thorne demanded, voice hissing between his gritted teeth, but he made no move to enforce it. Perhaps he was in shock.

Arthur was far from being finished. He went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “Oh, but you asked me a question the other day, and I never answered. You must allow me to apologize for my rudeness. I should have done so at once.” His hand curled around his cutlery, observing Thorne with that sweet smile, all the while counting down the seconds for his husband to lose all control. His next words would surely do the trick.

“You asked me why my _cunt_ never swallowed your seeds when it did my own brother’s. It’s quite simple, really. I enjoyed fucking him so much that I mated with James. You married a bonded Omega, my love.” Arthur sneered, his words lashing cruelly into Thorne, merciless in his goading.

He braced himself.

At first, Thorne didn’t show any outward reaction beside the throbbing vein at his temple. Arthur’s words seemed to take some time to sink in for he was as still as a corpse and growing paler by the second.

Then, _finally_ , the dam burst.

“Shut up, you insolent wench!” Thorne roared, spittle flying, and sliced his hand across the table, sending his plate flying into the wall. He’d hardly left his chair when he charged at Arthur like a raging bull.

Heart beating so hard it hurt, Arthur forced himself to stay seated, even when Thorne got his hand around his throat and squeezed tight. He snarled in response when the grip turned agonizing. Thorne fully intended to kill him this time, but Arthur needed to wait until — there! Thorne bore down on him, tipping his chair back with the force of his assault and closed in so he could hover over him.

That was when Arthur struck.

He drove the steak knife he still held in his hand up into Thorne’s side. It was horrifying how effortlessly the freshly sharpened blade cut through his vest and shirt, sheathing itself between his rib. Like slicing through butter.

Thorne gasped, letting go of Arthur on instinct. His mistake. With nothing holding Arthur’s chair in its tilted position, he dropped back to the ground and used the momentum to impale Thorne further onto his blade. Thorne lurched back and caught himself on the table. The tableware rattled at the impact, but the heavy wood ultimately carried his weight. Thorne panted as he stared up at Arthur in furious betrayal. The point of the knife must have punctured his lung because his breath rattled inside his chest, the sound grating in the sudden hush.

Blood slicked the metal handle, its warmth making Arthur’s skin crawl, and time seemed to slow as the knife slipped from his grasp when Thorne’s arm gave. The Beta slumped back to the ground, and the blade stuck from his lower ribcage like a gruesome splinter, but Thorne made no move to pull it out. Instead, with great effort, he spoke.

“Traitorous bitch,” he panted, and the word gurgled in his throat as blood escaped with his breath.

Arthur should have known Thorne wouldn’t die without having the last word. He’d planned on giving him a silent death, to keep from mocking him while he was in death’s throes, but Thorne just couldn’t shut up. He crouched down and tilted Thorne’s chin up with blood-soaked fingers. “This moment would have come sooner if you’d managed to have my father killed. A pity.”

Thorne grunted, tossing his head to get out of his hold. It wasn’t enjoyable to be on the other side, was it? Arthur sneered and reached down to grab the knife again.

It was time to end this.

Thorne didn’t make it easy. He hissed and grabbed Arthur’s wrist to keep him from tugging it out, knowing he was as good as dead if he did. His grip was far stronger than Arthur had anticipated and they wrestled for the slippery handle, which was almost impossible to get a hold on.

Arthur’s heart gave a sickening lurch when he realized Thorne was about to overpower him. In a blind panic, Arthur slapped him across the face as hard as he could with his free hand. It jarred the bones in his wrists but proved successful when Thorne fell flat on his back, stunned by the blow. Wasting no time, Arthur straddled him and pinned Thorne’s free hand underneath his knee, while his other still clutching at his bleeding side. He bared his teeth when Thorne, who — after _everything_ — still seemed so surprised, so disbelieving that Arthur had turned against him.

It infuriated him.

“My cunt swallowed his seeds because they were his. I will _never_ stop loving James,” he spat into Thorne’s contorted face and wrenched the knife out of his side.

Thorne’s body arched from the floor, and he panted in agony, thrashing so hard Arthur was almost unseated.

“Whore!” he cried out, and Arthur had had enough.

He held his knife aloft, blood dripping down his forearms, and plunged it into Thorne’s breast with all his might. Thorne’s eyes bulged, the veins in his face standing out against the gray pallor of his face. A wet gurgle left his mouth.

Arthur screwed his eyes shut and wished for this to end.

The blade resisted when he tried to drag it out, catching and slicing into Thorne’s insides, but Thorne didn’t make a sound, too busy choking on his own blood. Blood started to seep out from his side without the knife keeping the wound sealed, and Arthur only noticed this when he felt it warm the inside of his leg. He slid off Thorne in disgust, knife pulling free, but didn’t open his eyes.

His breath came shallow as he listened to each rattling of Thorne’s intake, which grew more frantic as he tried to fill his drowning lungs with air. The minutes stretched out for an eternity as the life drained from Thorne’s body.

Then all was still.

Thorne had finally drawn his last breath.

He was dead.

Arthur had convinced himself that he wouldn’t be affected by this. Had envisioned himself cooly wiping Thorne’s blood off his knife, perhaps even finishing his meal. This was supposed to be the closing chapter to these ten miserable years of his life. But now, faced with reality, Arthur found the last page missing because his body would not comply with his wishes. Why couldn’t he move? Hadn’t he done this before? No. Not really. Because Arthur couldn’t even remember taking his first life. Couldn’t even remember what his first husband’s face looked like before he lit it on fire.

 _Fuck_.

He stared into space, growing aware of the tremors that were taking hold of him. At first, he feared that it was remorse that caused his body to quake, but the next intake of fresh air brought clarity to him.

It was relief.

The knife clattered to the floor as a violent shudder went through him. Arthur brought his shaking hands to his cover his mouth, not even noticing the taste of Thorne’s blood as a gasp escaped him.

Relief.

Mind-numbing relief coursed through his veins and ignited every fiber of his being with the knowledge that he was free. It was over.

It should be over.

But it wasn’t.

Not yet.

He would hang for this.

Arthur took in a deep, shuddering breath, bile rising, and reigned in his emotions. He finally looked down at Thorne’s prone form, whose features were still caught in his last desperate search for breath. What the fuck was he going to do now? Go crying to James? Arthur hiccuped on his snort at the thought, growing delirious with his success. No, he could rely on himself to clean up his own mess. James had taught him that much in death.

“Goodbye, Thorne. May you rot in hell,” Arthur breathed and got to his feet.

He had a concert to attend and there was still work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Domestic violence, panic attack, suicidal thoughts, drug use, reference to infanticide, reference to past rape, dubious consent due to dream sex, cunnilingus, alcoholism, Bad-Touch Thorne, graphic depiction of violence, and murder with mild gore… yikes. 
> 
>    
>  **Next up: The Trial.**
> 
> How’s that for a Murder? Feel free to tell me your favorite parts of the chapter! Or if you have any predictions! It helps to know what’s working and what isn’t. 
> 
> This chapter kept on growing and I wondered if I should cut out the uh- wet dream, but decided that the more smut the merrier! Plus we all know James is a thirsty bitch, so there’s no way he wouldn’t visit Arthur after the last chapter…
> 
> Note that Arthur’s dream about Robert’s abduction is a laudanum-induced nightmare, not a real memory since he was drugged when it occurred. (Laudanum also being the reason why James couldn’t get through to him during the first night.)
> 
> See you guys (hopefully) soon!

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be in two parts. Part 1 will focus on the events in season one, which will become increasingly AU since Arthur has no intentions of sitting around and pining for James, while Part 2 takes off from the season finale!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [@damneddelaney](https://damneddelaney.tumblr.com)


End file.
